


Caught Red Handed

by unscriptedemily



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Blood and Injury, Conspiracy, Corruption, Crime Fighting, Crimes & Criminals, Explosions, Fluff, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Human Alphonse Elric, M/M, Near Death, Oblivious, Oops, Opposites Attract, Slash, The Author Regrets Everything, The Author Regrets Nothing, Torture, ed's a thief, fuckin school man, i feel like i need to tag every horrible thing that happens so people know not to read it lmao, i wrote the first part ages ago but, idk man, just didn't get around to the rest of it for ages, just kidding, roy's a detective, this is such a mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2015-08-05
Packaged: 2018-03-11 03:53:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 78,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3312908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unscriptedemily/pseuds/unscriptedemily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is no way that Edward Elric is in love with the guy whose wallet he stole. No way in <em>hell</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It's a Crime to be This Hot

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Twelfth Cup of Coffee](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2517239) by [Tierfal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tierfal/pseuds/Tierfal). 



> A/N: ????????? THIS WASN’T MEANT TO HAPPEN BUT IT DID IM SO SORRY Just- vaguely modern au in which Ed’s a thief in his spare time. And he has the prosthetics. So, like, CoS but modern. Yes. ENJOY THE RIDE YOU GUYS <3  
> p.s. this is unbeta'd DON'T HATE ME  
> p.p.s. inspired by Tierfal's fic The Twelfth Cup of Coffee- I've just finished reading it and some themes (like Ed's coffee shop job) are very similar to her own.

  


Roy’s played this game before. The flirting, the coy smiles, the enigma- it’s nothing he hasn’t already seen before. The woman (what was her name? Sara?) giggles and leans forwards a little more so her cleavage is exposed, and Roy’s not complaining at the view. He sets his drink down on the polished wood of the bar; some vaguely psychedelic music is playing in the background and over by the wall he can see some kids from college eating each other’s faces. Sara tucks a lock of silky brown hair behind her ear and Roy’s just leaning in when someone puts their glass down heavily between them. Roy looks up, eyes narrowed, ready to punch someone by now- when he’s distracted by the newcomer’s extremely startling _golden_ eyes.

What the fuck?

“Hey,” says the newcomer, low and husky and very male, completely blanking Sara, who protests loudly and is ignored.

“Do you mind?” asks Roy icily, but he can’t help taking in the blinding golden hair slung in a careless ponytail, the tight black t shirt, tight leather pants ( _god)_ , scuffed combat boots- he’s had his fair share of female _and_ male partners over the years, after all…

“Nah,” says Mr. Goldilocks, swinging himself onto the bar with a kind of loose grace, “Do you?”

Roy drags his eyes away from that burning gaze, and leans around Yellow-Eyes. Sara’s glass is sitting on the bar, half empty. Sara is not.

“That dark haired chick left,” says the guy loudly, and Roy stands up so he’s on the same level as him, so he can stare him in the (disarmingly beautiful) eyes. “So I guess you’re stuck with me.”

“What makes you think I’m planning on staying?” Asks Roy, glad that his ice-statue mask hasn’t slipped, and usually when his voice takes on that tone, that level of coldness, the unfortunate person _backs the fuck off_ -

But this guy just smiles, slow and languid and Roy feels heat pool in his stomach. The air is heated, and if he concentrates, he can _feel_ the change in the tension between the two of them. Who _is_ this guy?

“Ed,” says the guy, like he can hear Roy’s thoughts, jumping off the bar- he’s about a head shorter than Roy, which is a little distracting. He runs a hand through his hair, shaking out his bangs, and fixes Roy with a wolfish grin.

Roy opens his mouth to reply- what he’s going to say he has no idea, and a split second later the thought is wiped from existence because ‘Ed’ has grabbed the collar of his shirt and pulled him down into a kiss that’s hotter than hell and almost as sinful.

Somehow Roy’s hands are curled tight in Ed’s hair, his tongue is in Ed’s mouth and Ed is drawing Roy’s lower lip through his teeth, grinding his hips in a way that should be illegal. He pulls back, eyes dark lashed and full of fire, and pulls Roy towards the door. Roy’s legs are eager to follow, and because his brain has been temporarily short-circuited, he does.

 

Ed’s back against the wall, Roy’s hands grazing his jaw and Ed curls his fist tight in Roy’s hair and kisses him, kisses him, sucking on his lip and sliding his tongue with a skilfulness that threatens to steal Roy’s breath. (And this, at least, is different: Roy is the one who kisses and seduces; his dark corners are too many for anyone to ever have a hope of being anything more than a one night stand or a momentary catch to Roy…but this…he’s never been on the end of the fishhook before and part of him wants to take back control and the other part is happy to drown)

His hands and tangled in Ed’s collar and Ed’s are somewhere near the hemline of his shirt-

 

And Ed pulls back, grinning, tongue flicking at the corner of his mouth as though savouring the taste.

“Thanks,” he says, and winks. And then he’s gone, melting into the shadows like a wraith.

 

For a minute, Roy just stands there, and then he turns, leans heavily against the wall, and scrubs his hands through his hair, tries to calm his thrumming heart. That was- different. Interesting, sure, and – well, he’s never been left _wanting more_ like that-

 

Wait a second.

 _Wait a fucking second_.

His hands go to his pocket, but with the greatest trepidation, he already knows what he’ll find.

What he finds, to be exact, is _nothing_. And therein the problem lies.

 

“That fucking- he stole my wallet!”

 

***

Ed opens the door as quietly as he can, wincing as the hinges creak. Fucking cheap-ass door. Fucking cheap-ass apartment. Al deserves better, and Ed’s already decided he’ll do whatever it takes to give Al the best he can offer. Whatever it takes- including stealing random dude’s wallets, apparently.

The night-time shadows have turned the hallway dark shades of shifting blue and grey; he closes the door behind him with a barely audible _click_ and, holding his breath, steps forwards.

“ _Fuck_! Shit-bitch-motherfuckin’- _fuck_ -,”

The cat- previously curled in a soft ball of fur on the hall floor- claws its way up Ed’s leg, hissing and spitting in fury; Ed’s elbow slams into the wall as he trips, and he hits the floor in a blur of pain and screaming.

The door splitting off the hall into the front room slams open, and Al’s perfect silhouette appears in the rectangle of light.

“ _Snooky_!”

Of fuckin’ _course_ the cat stops trying to rake Ed’s leg off with its tiny needle-hands as soon as Al rushes forwards and scoops him into his pyjama-clad arms.

“Don’t worry about the fucking furball, Al, it tried to _claw my leg off_!” Ed yells, and Al turns his (gorgeous, incredible) eyes on his crumpled form and flicks the Mom Glare up to 100%.

“Brother,” Al says, very quietly, and he casts a menacing form standing in shadow with the light behind him, wearing his blue cat-patterned PJs and slowly stroking the purring monster in his arms, “why are you so late?”

Ed pauses in his attempts to drag himself to his feet using the wall.

“Uh. I was. In the lab, Al, you know I have to…be… in the lab…sometimes…”

He trails off in the face of Al’s piercing Mom Glare. It is _so_ not fair that Al inherited the omnipotent Mom Glare and all Ed inherited was the _height thing_. He swallows- swallows, not gulps, because he’s the _older_ brother, and for fuck’s sake he has to _withstand_ the force of the Mom Glare.

Very deliberately, Al looks up and down Ed’s black-boots leather-pants tight-shirt-clad person.

Ed manages keeps up his _gosh, Al, I have_ no _idea what you’re trying to imply_ face for a grand total of three seconds.

“Okay,okay, _fine_ , I was at a bar, o _kay_?”

Al’s face doesn’t change one iota.

“What’s that in your pocket?”

His pocket. Right. His too-small pocket, where he stashed Random Attractive Man’s wallet, and because it’s too small, the wallet kind of…pokes out a little, which means that Al can see perfectly well what it is, and therefore there is really absolutely no point in trying to lie his way out of this situation.

Fuck it, Ed tries anyway, because the kind of person he is.

“What thing?” he asks as innocently as he can, standing up and looking down at himself. “Oh, this?” He pulls the wallet out of his pocket, which takes some work, because his pants are _really_ tight. “This is- my wallet, obviously!”

From his dressing gown pocket, Al holds up a black wallet decorated with a flaming skull and metal studs.

“You mean this one?” he asks, and now the Mom Glare has evolved into something beyond description. Ed swallows.

“Uh. Yeah?”

With a long-suffering sigh that lasts for about forty seconds- Ed’s kind of impressed- Al deposits the cat behind him on their beat-up shitty-ass couch in favour of folding his arms across his chest.

“Brother, you have to return it.”

“ _What_?”

Al grabs his arm and drags him into the siting room.

“I know you stole it, Brother, so don’t even _try_ pretending. And you _have to return_ it.”

Defeated, Ed flops onto the couch, carefully aiming his body away from the hissing furball, and says, words muffled due to the fact that his face is buried in a cushion, “We need the money, Al…”

“That doesn’t mean you take it from innocent people! I know we did a lot of- bad things- to get to where we are now, but we don’t have to live like that anymore, Brother!”

The shame has kind of settled on Ed like a really fucking heavy blanket, now, but Al doesn’t get it- can’t get; Ed won’t let him get it.

“Al,” he says, “I’m sorry.”

He means it. But, see, the reason he’s turned to petty crime is because things aren’t really going so well at the moment. He’s sick of this crappy couch, and the crappy TV, and the whole crap-fest of an apartment they’re stuck in. He’s sick of having the scrape up every last cent for the rent, and he’s sick of Al having to carry a knife because they could only afford to stay in the shittiest part of town, and he’s sick of this _life_.

And he’s never, ever going to let Al carry that burden; this is _his fault_ , so he’s going to be the one who goes out there and chats up slimy fucking creeps in skanky bars and takes their money because _he’s_ the one who got them into this mess, so he’s the one who’s going to get them out again.

There is silence, and then Al’s slight weight settles into the couch next to him, and even though his face is smushed into the pillow so hard he’s seeing those weird spirals of light, he knows that Al is smiling that sad, weary smile.

“I know, Brother,” he says, very, very quietly, and Ed’s heart clenches, cracks, and a few bits just kind of fall off and shatter.

‘Cause Ed’s working from 4am to 4pm at a coffee shop three miles away, and when his shift finishes he goes straight to Izumi’s lab on the other side of town to work on the next minor breakthrough, and Al’s taking classes at a university in the city. That’s their system. That’s how it is, how it’s been, for two years now. But _it wasn’t always like this_ , and- though he’s never, ever going to admit it to anyone- he’s so fucking scared that one day the money’ll stop coming, and everything they’ve built will crumble. And he can’t let that happen to Al. he _can’t_.

So whatever it takes- _whatever it takes_ \- he’s going to keep Al safe, and alive, and as innocent as he can. They’ve been through so much shit, but the least he can do is stop Al from becoming what he has.

He breathes into the musty-familiar softness of the cushion, and listens to Al stroking the cat for a few moments. Then, slowly, Ed pulls his face out of the cushion, and looks up at his little brother.

Al’s eyes are very steady, very calm, and very big in the dim amber lamplight.

God _damn it_.

With a growl, Ed slams his face back into the couch, wriggling to find a space to talk into, and says, “Fucking _fine_ , I’ll give it back tomorrow, okay? _Jeez_.”

He shifts again, pressing his head back into the face shaped dent he’s made in the cushion, and from the way the air changes, he can tell that Al is _beaming_. The couch groans as Al jumps to his feet, and there’s a rustle as he bends to lift the cat into his arms again.

“I’ll make some hot chocolate,” he announces happily, then, slightly disapprovingly, “you look _exhausted_ Brother.”

“’M _fine_ , Al, _jeez_.” Ed mutters into the cushion, and kicks his feet up so he can alter his position to a more comfortable face-down splay over the rest of the couch instead of the awkward kneeling thing he’d had going on.

“Sure you are,” says Al, flicking the light on in their tiny kitchen, “and take off your shoes. You’ll get dirt on the couch, Brother, and then I’ll have to ban you from it and you won’t be able to lie on it anymore.”

Ed half-heartedly flips him off over the top of the sofa, lifting his head just enough to yawn widely.

There’s a second where he can _feel_ Al frowning at him, and then, muttering under his breath, he gives in and toes off his boots. Because he’ll do anything for Al, and, you know, this couch is _his,_ no matter how beat-up and shitty it may be.

 

He’s kind of drifting in the soft grey zone between sleep and wakefulness when Al brings the hot chocolate in. There’s a little sigh, and he murmurs something along the lines of “murghufle” into the couch, and then a blanket is being draped over him and the light is replaced by the soft shadows of whatever-the-fuck-the-time-is.

“Goodnight, Brother,” says Al softly, and Ed cracks his eyes open, guilt trickling through him for keeping Al up waiting for him when he knowns he has college tomorrow. He mumbles, “’Night, Al. Love you,” which means _I’m sorry I’m such a shitty brother_.

“Love you too,” comes the gentle reply, which means _go to sleep Brother,_ and _I’m not blaming you_. And then the door swings shut with a gentle _click_ and the night sweeps in.

 

 

Roy is only fifteen minutes late to the station, but in this meagre time his desk has already accumulated five mysteriously unforthcoming folders and nine incident reports.

He sighs feelingly at the sight of it, hangs his coat over the back of his chair, and opens his mouth to ask Havoc to _please take some of this workload off of me, I’ve had a_ really _rough night- and did I tell you how much I value your friendship?_ , but Riza sweeps in and cuts him off before he even begins.

“The autopsy on Rosalie Harbinger, Sir,” she says briskly, and deposits a file into his prone arms. Breda snickers from behind the screen of his laptop, and Roy shoots him a glare.

“Detective Hughes called before you arrived,” Riza continues, “He has an update on Youswell and some additional information regarding the Tucker case. Your coffee, Sir.” She holds out the paper cup, and Roy accepts it gratefully, dropping into his chair. He takes a sip, and squeezes his eyes tightly shut as the bitter liquid hits his tongue, choking slightly.

Havoc guffaws loudly from his workstation, and Roy opens his eyes enough to glare murder at him.

“The coffee machines are terrible, aren’t they?” says a bright voice, and someone drags a spare chair next to Roy’s and slides several sheets onto his desk.

“Maes.” Says Roy, “What a surprise.”

“It shouldn’t be!” says Maes, pushing his glasses up on his nose, “I asked Riza to tell you I was coming in.”

“She said you called, not that you were coming to visit- and I was being sarcastic.”

“I know, I know,” Maes sighs dramatically, leaning forwards and shoving one of his sheets in front of Roy’s nose, “Look! Gracia took Elysia shopping! She has a beautiful new coat, perfect for my darling daughter-,”

“ _Maes_.”

“Yes, Roy, my dear?”

Roy grits his teeth, pushing the photograph out of his face, and scoots his chair closer to the desk. “Some of us have work to do, you know.”

Maes sits up straighter, putting the photograph down, and says, “Ah, yes. That’s what I’m here to talk to you about.”

With a mournful look at the mountain of paperwork, Roy flips open the first folder. “What about it?” he asks, scanning the first paragraph. A mugging on West Street…three witnesses….one casualty…..

“You look tired,” says Maes suddenly, disregarding Roy’s question, “What were you up to last night?” He wiggles his eyebrows meaningfully, and Roy sighs again, looking up at his friend in annoyance.

“Do you actually have anything relevant to tell me, or are you just here to interfere?”

Again, Maes ignores him. “Because, I noticed you didn’t answer my calls- not that you ever do- and I have someone who tells me you went _downtown_ rather late last night…”

Roy’s neutral mask slides into place as easily as a bullet into the chamber of a gun. “I wanted a drink.”

“Not in the King’s Arms?”

“I didn’t feel like talking to the usual crowd.”

“So you went somewhere no one would recognise you.”

“Evidently someone did.”

“Only because I paid them to.”

“Remind me why we’re friends again?”

“Roy.”

“Maes.”

“Who was the blonde kid?”

Roy narrows his eyes. Maes smiles benignly at him, and winks broadly.

Working his jaw, Roy looks back down at the folder in front of him. “I just needed to get drunk and get laid,” he says finally, “’the blonde kid’ was attractive enough, and I was drunk enough. End of story.”

Why doesn’t he tell Maes about the wallet? For some reason, his mind keeps skimming over the heart-wrenching terror of discovering that someone had taken his wallet, had opened it up and rifled through his possessions, and keeps coming back to- well. Back to _that kiss_. He can’t concentrate; he didn’t get any sleep last night and he’s sure it shows in his eyes- the nightmares, of course, stopped him from drifting off properly, and besides, his brain wouldn’t _shut up_ long enough for him to get to the drifting-off stage in the first place.

Maes looks at him for a moment, then leans forward again, softening, and lowers his voice. “Afghanistan was hard on all of us,” he says, gently this time “Roy- it’s been two years and this drowning-your-sorrows thing… I really think therapy would be a good-,”

“Not all of us can just spill our emotions to some stranger, Maes,” hisses Roy, forsaking the mask, “besides; I’m absolutely fine- am I not allowed to go out for a drink now? I’m not _twelve_ , you know.” See, the thing is, he’s _done-_ he’s done with the well-meaning friends and the pats on the back; he’s not _delicate_ and he can damn well cope with this on his own-

“I’m not saying you have to,” says Maes calmly, “I’m just saying I recommend it.” He rests his hand on Roy’s shoulder for a second, warm and steady, and then gets out of the chair, straightening. “My guys looked through the CCTV on and around Tucker’s property,” he says in a normal tone, “I’ve sent you the video- this is the time you’ll want to fast-forward to….”

 

The bustle of the office is comforting, familiar: Havoc and Breda are simultaneously slacking off and helping Falman sort through the filing cabinet; Feury is surreptitiously slipping Black Hayate a piece of his sandwich while Riza’s back is turned, and the dog’s owner in question is speaking firmly to some unlucky soul on one of the phones.

Maes hands him the USB drive with the crime scene photos on it, and tells him he’ll get the fingerprints from the lab as soon as he can. He leaves with a wave and cheerful “see you later, Roy,” and with a gulp of the foul-tasting-but-necessary coffee, Roy takes a pen from the jar on his desk, and gets to work.

He’ll have plenty of time to think about Ed and Ed’s tongue and Ed’s quick hands _later_.


	2. Petty Criminal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Detective Roy Mustang is not attracted to the guy who stole his wallet. At all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N- First things first: ONCE AGAIN I AM SO SORRY. This doesn’t make ANY sense at all and I have absolutely no idea how police stations work in the US (all of my knowledge comes from the police scenes in orphan black and supernatural just so you know) so I just kind of made stuff up? JUST BEAR WITH ME AND PRETEND THAT IT MAKES SENSE OKAY <3 I love you guys, have a great day!  
> p.s. someone featured Chemistry Class in a big fma fic rec??? bruh <3

Their laptop is absolute crap, but Ed will feel better after he google stalks the guy, so he sticks it out while the machine heaves and huffs its way through the start-up screen. The sky has darkened outside the windows; Ed scowls at the clouds and massages his right arm. It’s going to rain.

Al’s voice drifts in from his bedroom, bright and also kind of scary. “I’m going to skip my first lecture so I can make sure you give that wallet back, Brother, so hurry up!”

“ _What_?” No! Al can’t skip his lecture, 1) because learning is good, even for smartass little genius runts like his brother, and 2) because _he wasn’t supposed to guess that Ed would chicken out of the whole giving-stolen-item back to owner thing_.

The laptop complains loudly as Ed types the name “Roy Mustang” into the google search bar. Al pads in looking stupidly awake for 7:30am and glances down at the wallet open on the table next to Ed.

“Roy Mustang…” he reads. “What are you doing?”

“google stalking him,” says Ed, “so I can find out where he works.” A genius plan! He’d actually been googling him to find out if he was rich so he could steal some _serious_ cash, but now Al would think he was finding out where he worked so he could give back the wallet.

Al brushes his hands off the keys and plonks himself down on the chair, shoving Ed along so his butt is in extreme danger of falling off the seat. “You’re not being very efficient,” comments Al, opening a little scripting box at the side, “you need to eliminate the irrelevant results, and bring Facebook results to the front of the queue…”

“Fuck facebook,” says Ed, but he leans in anyway. “There.” The profile picture at the side is him, no question about it. Dark hair, _dark_ eyes, smarmy little smirk playing at the corner of his mouth…yep.

Beside him, Al raises his eyebrows. “ _That’s_ the guy whose wallet you stole?”

“Yup.”

“Nice choice.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, nothing…”

“ _Al_ -,”

“Brother, I was- wait a second.” For a second, Al stares at the screen, before throwing his head back and _laughing_.

“ _What_?” Ed wriggles to get himself more or less securely on the seat again, and pulls the laptop towards him. Next to him, Al slips off the chair and tumbles onto the floor, still laughing.

“Wow, Brother, you really- chose this one well!”

“What the fuck?” Ed scans the screen with his eyes; he hasn’t used Facebook in, like, three billion years; where’s the ‘job’ section…?

He finds it at the side, and freezes. Al’s quiet giggles ring in the air, a bright bell sound, and Ed is so, so completely fucked.

“ _Shit_.”

**Rockville City Police Station Detective 2009- present**

_***_

“Brother, if you just go to the front desk and hand it in, you won’t have to talk to him. Not that you want to. Or should.”

“Al! Anyway, how the hell do you know that? What if he _is_ there, an’ he recognises me, and then I get arrested, and then you’ll have to come and break me out of jail and we’ll have to leave town again and-,”

“Brother. Trust me. There’s a reception part, where you can go and drop off lost items, and it’s completely separate from all the police officers. Just _go_ , before I take you there myself!”

“ _Fine_.”

The door slams behind Ed, and Al sighs and starts erasing their search history. You can never be too careful, and besides, Ed always finds a way to get himself in trouble- and Al _really_ doesn’t want to leave town again, there’s this really cute girl in his biology lectures called May and he wants to at least get her number before they have to execute a daring midnight rooftop escape from the police again….

 

The police station is fairly quiet, because it’s _fucking before nine o’clock in the morning, Al_ , so no one sees Ed wipe his sweaty hands nervously on his jeans before pushing the door open and letting it swing shut behind with a _swish_.

Inside, it’s almost exactly like Al said, which makes Ed a little suspicious because how does his sweet, innocent baby brother know the almost-exact layout of the local police station? There’s a reception desk with a small queue of people waiting, and he can see a plastic sign on the glass partition that says LOST PROPERTY in an obnoxious font. Bouncing a little on the balls of his feet, Ed steps into line, and wishes it wouldn’t look completely fuckin suspicious to put his hood up to hide his hair.

What if Roy Mustang has already reported his wallet being stolen and given a detailed description of the perpetrator? Ed had swapped out his leather pants and black tank for a red hoodie and jeans, but _still._ The guy was a fucking detective, who was Ed kidding? Of _course_ he’d already reported it; Ed is literally about to be arrested, and running away at this point- there’s now only one person between him and the reception desk- would look even more completely fuckin’ suspicious than pulling up his hood.

He tries to glance around nonchalantly, and estimates a distance of seven point five metres between him and the door. He could make that before anyone set off any alarms, right?

The guy in front of him- a freakishly tall giant with a receding hairline and brown loafers- smiles at the receptionist and walks away, leaving through the door without any security guards tackling him to the ground.

Fucking hell, if Loafer Giant could do it then _so could Ed_.

 

“Uh, I have someone’s wallet?”

The receptionist eyes him, purses her lips, and he pulls the wallet out of his hoodie pocket and sets it on the shiny surface before him.

“oh, of course!” she says, and laughs nasally. Ed resists the urge to bolt.

“I found it in the street so…I figured I should hand it…in…” This is going well, he hasn’t sworn at her yet, and no one is pointing a gun to his head and demanding he step away from the wallet.

“well, thank you very much!” Smiles the receptionist, and motions for him to put it in the little letterbox-opening in the partition. He does so, and she reaches forwards with manicured nails and lifts it out. Should he go? Can he leave? She’s flipping the wallet open and- shit, shit _shit_ -,

“ _Roy Mustang_? He works here! Wow, that’s so _weird_!” She gasps, and Ed’s every muscle tenses to flee. There’s a window on the other side of the room; if he vaults those chairs and smashes the glass then he could potentially make it out before anyone shoots him…

“Hang on, I’ll get him to come down and he can thank you personally- I know he’d like to, he’s so _nice_ and _polite_ ,” she’s giggling now, and pressing a small button that could either be an alarm or an intercom.

_Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck shit fuck shit crap damn fucking fuck-_

Ed tries to protest, he really does; he even gets out the words, “Nah, don’t worry, I’ll just go, it’s fine-,” but she’s already speaking into a little microphone and saying, “Detective Mustang? Could you come down to reception please?” and looking up at Ed with an obliviously pleased smile and he’s not sure if he wants to _break her face_ or get out of there. Both, probably.

Also, his arm and leg hurt like a _bitch_ ; sure, it’s fairly…useful to be able to tell when he weather’s going to do a massive Fuck You and pour all of the rain that ever happened ever onto the city, but if it comes at the cost of sharp jabbing needles of agony with every step he takes then _Ed’s actually alright, thanks_.

Not that he would give the prosthetics back even if he could; they’ve saved his life more times than he can count, but still. It _hurts_.

He’s just about to run for it when there are some confident footsteps from a hallway adjacent to the lobby, and Roy Mustang saunters in with a slow, smoky smile.

Oh, god.

***

His name over the intercom jolts him from his daydream; he looks down to discover that he’s just doodled a coffee mug over a paragraph of the report he’s supposed to be reading. Roy has no time to wonder what that says about him before everyone is turning in their chairs to stare in his direction.

“Sir, you’ve been called down to the lobby,” says Riza helpfully, and Roy starts, standing and pulling his jacket on.

“Right, yes, of course,” he says, even though he has no fucking clue why he’s being summoned. He didn’t report the wallet incident yet- although he still doesn’t know why but has decided it would be unwise to question his own psychology this late into the game- so there’s not really any reason why he should be being called down…unless…

But no. Ed will have sold his credit cards and has probably already robbed several banks using his identity. Roy is strangely unworried about that.

His footsteps echo through the hall and he slides his mask into place, assuming the persona of Roy Mustang, best detective on the force. Silky and smooth and unhurried and confident; he smiles at a few passing secretaries and they giggle behind their folders, blushing.

He gives the receptionist who called him down a smouldering look, vaguely registering that the lobby is pretty cold; he tugs the lapels of his jacket a little and glances around.

He realises it’s raining at about the same moment he realises that Ed is standing in front of him with an _Oh god_ expression on his face and every muscle taut and lean and ready to run.

 

For a second, he just stares, because Ed’s wearing a faded red hoodie and rumpled black jeans, and his hair is shining in the buzzing artificial lights, and despite the fact that his eyes are kind of panicked right now, there’s still something dangerous in his gaze, something captivating.

Also, Roy is really fucking surprised to see him standing there like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming train.

***

Roy fucking Mustang is standing there staring at him, all dark eyes and sorta-ruffled hair like maybe he rolled out of bed a little late this morning, and Ed can’t help but take in his crisp white shirt, his fitted trousers, his midnight blue tie. He looks _really_ good in the suit, is what Ed’s trying to say here. Like, _really_ good. Seriously good. _Finger-lickin’_ good.

Ed remembers the kiss, the way Roy- even his name sounds like sex incarnate- moved his lips, his tongue, his long graceful fingers and the depth of his eyes. He can’t be blamed for raking his eyes up Roy’s greek-god body, and when their eyes meet the air is charged with electricity like the space between your fingers and a Van de Graaff generator.

The phrase _I’m so fucked_ comes to mind, but this time for a different reason than getting arrested.

 

“Look, Detective Mustang!” says the receptionist excitedly, cutting into the sparking air, “The kid-,” Ed sees _red_ at the word; he’s _not fucking short and how dare she_ -, “found your wallet on the street and though he should give it back! That’s so nice of him, isn’t it?”

Roy takes in Ed’s ferocious gaze, and says, “….yes, that’s very responsible of you, Mr…?”

Through gritted teeth, Ed says, “Edward Elric.”

A second later he realises his (very, very grave) mistake because _why didn’t he give a fucking fake name? What the fuck is_ wrong _with him jesus fuck-shit-fuck-bitch-motherfucking- fuck_ fuck FUCK **_FUCK-_**

“Yes, thank you very much Mr. Elric, have a nice day.” Says Roy, and he collects his wallet from the starry-eyed receptionist and walks away with a smile and a small wave.

Ed isn’t entirely sure how he makes it out the door, since his legs- leg- feel like jelly, and his breathing is too fast and he’s still battling some other problems that are- ahem- _harder_ to deal with. Thank god these jeans ride a little loose on his hips, is all he can think.

He squints down the street through a sheet of rain and, absentmindedly rubbing his shoulder, sets off homeward.

He’s fucked, yes, but…well. Random hot guy’s name is Roy Mustang, he’s a cop, he wears really nice suits also he’s _really hot._ Holy shit. There no way- no _way-_ that Ed’s having the hots over the guy whose wallet he stole. Is there?

***

Roy isn’t entirely sure how he makes it back to his chair, but somehow he must have done, because Maes is leaning over his monitor and saying, “Your wallet got stolen?”

Clearing his throat, Roy puts said wallet in his jacket pocket. “Yes, but it’s unstolen now so…that’s nice.”

Inwardly, he’s still running over the small details of Edward Elric- the way, for example, he looked as though he was mentally beating himself up for not having given a fake name when he said “Edward Elric,” in that voice, _god_ , that husky, growly voice, and those unnatural, mesmerizing golden irises and the casual slip of his ponytail over the hood of his sweater, the way the waistband of his jeans flirted with his sharp hipbones…

The guy who stole his wallet is called Edward Elric, and apparently he wears nice jeans and red hoodies in his spare time and also _he’s really fucking hot. Holy shit,_ thinks Roy, _I_ cannot _be attracted to the guy who stole my wallet._


	3. Out of the Frying Pan...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N- ????????????? look I think it’s been made pretty clear by now that I don’t have any idea what I’m doing. Please stick with me!!!! I promise there is plot somewhere

Ed’s debating the merits of healthy vs junk food in the grocery section of the store when the scream cuts through the air. He looks up, realises the aisle is blocking his view, attempted to look over the top of it, and fails. Which has nothing to do with his height and fuck stupidly tall shelving anyway.

He skids round the corner, boots squeaking horrifically on the laminated flooring, and the balaclava-clad guy at the front till spins round and points the gun straight at his head.

“Don’t fucking move!”

For fuck’s _sake_.

The cashier, a girl with long brown hair and dyed red bangs, takes a deep breath as the gunman diverts his attention from her. It’s the afternoon and it’s freezing out- not to mention the less-than-commendable area- so it looks like they’re the only two people in the store. Well, at least there’s that.

Ignoring the gun- the guy’s hand is _shaking_ , he can’t be more than, what? Sixteen?- Ed makes eye contact with the girl at the till. Isn’t there a button u der the counter that signals to the police? Ed’s pretty sure there’s a button; he’s seen it on TV like, millions of times. How do you communicate _press the god damn button_ with just your eyes? He isn’t sure if the message gets through, but the girl seems to understand, because she swallows and gives a slight nod.

“Put your hands up!” shouts the guy shrilly, waving the gun at Ed, who raises an eyebrow.

“Whoa, whoa,” he says as smoothly as he can, “you don’t wanna do that, buddy.”

“Yeah?” asks the gunman, and takes a step forward. Behind him, the girl is shuffling along to the other end of the counter.

“Yeah,” says Ed, and slowly raises his right arm to shield his chest. He’ll be damned if he lets some unfortunate kid shoot him in the ribs or something. The guy flinches at his movement, almost drops the gun. “You’ve never done this before.” Says Ed, and he can see the guy’s eyes widen, then narrow.

“What the fuck would you know about it?” he snarls, and brings the gun up to Ed’s eye level. “Get on the fucking floor.”

Ed’s too far away to make a move without potentially putting the girl in danger, but she’s slowly inching around the end of the counter now. He’s not entirely certain that the guy won’t shoot- sure, he’s a fucking amateur, but he’s tense like a coiled spring and if he gets startled he’ll probably pull off a dozen shots just out of nerves- and Ed can’t guarantee that he’ll miss all of them.

But in the end, it doesn’t matter, because the girl’s shoe just squeaked against the floor, and the guy is spinning, gun raised, his finger is tightening on the trigger…

Ed launches himself forwards and kicks the guy’s legs out from under him; three bullets rip the air around him and the girl screams. The guy flails, trips, and manages to turn his fall into a crash against the counter. As he steadies himself the girl fumbles for the button, and from her face Ed can see she’s managed to press it. Swearing like a sailor, the guy turns the gun on Ed and he rolls, coming up to slam a back kick into Balaclava’s solar plexus. The gun clatters to the ground, and Ed scoops it up, carefully flicking the safety on as police sirens light up the street outside.

 _Shit_.

***

“You saved me- thank you so much,” the girl- her name tag reads ‘Rose’- is saying, and Ed smiles weakly at her.

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” he says, and pulls his phone out his pocket. Damn. The police are literally right outside, Balaclava Guy is unconscious on the floor (he’d tried to jump Ed after his gun had been taken away, and Ed had had to punch him in the temple to get him to stop shouting) and Ed’s not sure what will happen if he’s taken in for questioning. After all, he’s not exactly innocent, even if he _had_ stopped a gun crime.

“Oh my gosh- your arm!” Rose’s eyes are wide and worried- police officers and ambulance guys are pouring through the door and she looks up at them, “Someone help him, he’s wounded!”

Ed looks down at his arm. The bullet tore the flesh casing of his automail and made a dent in the metal, but apart from that, it’s fine. There’s no blood, but from an outsider’s point of view he can see that the flapping synthetic flesh probably looks pretty weird.

“No- seriously, it’s fine,” he says, “It- uh, it missed.”

“We’re going to have to ask the both of you some questions,” says one of the officers, and Rose nods, twisting her hands together as she’s led off by a dangerous looking woman with her blonde hair in a bun.

A paramedic hurries over, brandishing a first aid kit. “I’m _not hurt_ ,” he says through gritted teeth, and she raises her eyebrow. “Your arm is bleeding,” she says matter-of-factly, and Ed looks down again, this time to the left. Oh. A dark stain is slowly spreading through the material of his hoodie- against the red, it looks like someone’s spilt water on him.

“We’ll need to take your sweater off- can you move your arm at all?” She’s young for a paramedic, with her dark hair in two braids she looks to be about Al’s age. Maybe even younger.

 _Al_. Al would be pacing around the apartment by now- Ed was meant to be home like five minutes ago. He looks down at his phone screen. One missed call.

“Uh, kind of,” he says, wincing as he raises his arm. But it’s not the first time he’s been shot, and even though it’s starting to sting like a bitch now, he’s had worse. The paramedic’s eyebrows slowly ascend her forehead as he reluctantly peels off the hoodie, and he turns his head away. The multitude of scars, of old wounds and new, marring his skin, makes him look like a freakshow character. This is why he wears long sleeves. ‘Course, the automail scarring on his other arm is much worse- years ago when he’d just come out of surgery, he’d worn a short sleeved t-shirt once. Once.

Some people had straight-up stopped in their tracks to stare, some people just averted their eyes when they talked to him and pretended he couldn’t see the sickened look etched on their faces.

A sharp pain in his arm makes him look down again. The girl has cleaned the blood away and is bandaging his arm. “I’m Mei,” she said conversationally. “You’re Edward Elric, right?”

Wait- what? “Huh?” How the fuck did she know that?

“I’m in Al’s class,” she explains, doing something complicated with the dressing on his arm, “ this is just work experience really, but they let me go out with them and get some real field practice. Al’s amazing,” she adds, and a dreamy look slides over her eyes. _What?_ Who was this girl? Some kind of crazy stalker? What was she trying to do to his baby brother?

Ed narrows his eyes, but before he can shake her off and explain in very thorough terms that no one will be messing with Al, _ever_ , a familiar voice cuts through the din. “Ah, Miss Chang. Is Mr. Elric here available for interviewing?”

“Sure thing, sir,” says Mei brightly, and turns to fix Ed with a glare. “No strenuous activity for three weeks,” she orders, “and change the dressing daily. And tell Al hi for me!” Then she’s gone, scooping up her first aid kit and disappearing into the crowd of police officers and paramedics loading the unconscious, unmasked Balaclava onto a stretcher.

And Ed’s standing there with stabbing pains rocketing through both his automail port _and_ his left arm, staring directly into Roy Mustang’s stupid smarmy midnight eyes.

***

“So are you going to tell me what’s going on here?” asks Ed as soon as they sit down, and Roy raises a sculpted eyebrow at him.

“I was going to ask you the same question.” He replies, and- _god_ , his _voice_ ….

“I was in the store, heard Rose scream; guy in the balaclava pointed a gun at her so I tackled him.” Ed shrugs. “End of story.”

“Impressive arm you’ve got there,” says Roy, looking at his exposed automail. “Prosthetics are hard to come by.”

“Family friend,” snaps Ed, “And it’s none of your fuckin’ business.”

“My apologies,” says Roy, and he looks genuinely sorry. “That was tactless of me.”

“You’re damn right it was,” mutters Ed, and reaches for his hoodie, mincing as he pulls it over his head. “Look, is there actually anything else you wanna know or can I go now?” He’s texted Al back, but there’s nothing stopping him coming to get Ed himself; he needs to get back to the apartment.

Roy puts the notebook and pencil back in his jacket and sighs. “Nothing pertaining to this case, no.”

“Great,” says Ed, and stands up. And promptly sits back down again. “ _Fuck_.”

“What’s wrong?” asks Roy. Ed spares him a glare and looks down at his leg- it’s still raining, and he hasn’t been taking care of it like he should be; he should’ve known that it would fuck up on today of all days. He draws in a sharp breath through his teeth as he gently probes at the port. There’s swelling where his flesh meets the freezing metal; his jeans offer meagre protection from the cold and it’s worse when he doesn’t sleep much….

“Is something wrong?” asks Roy again, leaning over, and Ed grits his teeth.

“Nope,” he says blandly, and turns to shoot him a wolfish smile- only to realise that his face is mere inches away from Roy’s. Again.

Ed freezes.

Roy freezes.

Roy’s breath is warm as it washes over his face, his eyelashes catch in each other when he blinks. His lips are moist and…mmm. Ed can remember their taste, Ed can remember _everything_. Ed really, really wants to kiss him again. He feels himself slowly going red- fuck, he can’t stop himself, he _really_ wants to kiss him, to taste him and-,

“Sir, Detective Hughes wants to see you back at the station.”

The blonde woman walks over, ad her eyes briefly flick over their position. Roy clears his throat, sits back- for a second, just a _second_ , Ed can see straight through him. Past the mask and the aloof, superior way he holds himself, he can see _want_ , raw and needy in his eyes. Ed wants to kiss Roy, and Roy wants to kiss him back.

“Of course,” Roy murmurs, standing up, and Ed, fuck it, can’t tear his eyes away. They exchange a look- Ed doesn’t know what’s in that glance but he knows he wants more of it- and then Roy turns away, fantastic ass and all.

Ed thuds his head back against the wall, shifting on the uncomfortable bench. _Fuck_.

***

“You were _shot_?!”

Ed winces as Al grabs his arms, eyes wide and outraged. “Uh, yeah- but only a little, and it doesn’t even hurt so, you know…”

“Brother there’s no such thing as being shot ‘a little’! You’re so _reckless_ \- what happened?”

Ed sighs, and throws himself onto the couch, only to jolt back up again as his injured arm hits the seat. “Fucking- shit! That _hurt_ … Al, I’ve already told you; some kid decided to threaten the cashier with a gun. There were only like two people in there, me and her. So no one got hurt, and the guy got caught, and we can all go home.”

“No one got hurt- apart from _you,_ you mean.”

“Yeah, but your friend- Mei?- put a bandage on it, so, you know, good as new!” Ed grins hopefully up at him, and Al pouts at him for another five seconds before sighing.

“I worry about you, brother,” he says softly, “you need to stop getting into so much trouble.”

“I don’t _try_ to get hurt.”

“I know, brother.”

They sit in silence for a few minutes; Ed toes off his boots and wraps a blanket around himself.

“Did you say that Mei was there?” Al asks after a moment, and Ed nods grouchily from within his burrito of warmth.

“Why? Is there something going on with you two? You’re too young to be going around with girls! What if you catch something?”

“First of all, _ew_ , brother, and second of all, she’s really nice!”

“You remember that one chick back in New York? _She_ was ‘nice’ and she ended up trying to shank me!”

“That was partly your fault, brother.”

“ _What?_ ”

Al stands up, brushes off his trousers, which Ed finds endearingly cute, and goes into the kitchen. Ed snuggles down further into his blanket nest, and tries to ignore the continuous dull ache of the automail and the throb of the bullet’s path in his arm.

“Here,” says Al, re-entering the room, and deposits three hand-warmers into Ed’s lap.

“Wha-?” mutters Ed sleepily- _god_ , he’s tired- and Al leans over to stroke Snooky, who leaps lightly up to join Ed on the couch.

“Your automail’s hurting, isn’t it? The weather’s awful, and it always hurts when it’s like that.”

Ed presses the squares of warmth onto the join between flesh and metal, and groans in relief. “Al, you know you’re, like, the best little brother in the world, yeah?”

“I know, brother,” says Al, and smiles happily as he pulls a textbook towards himself, curling up on the other end of the sofa to read. Snooky, settling in the crook of Ed’s leg, starts purring, and Ed thinks that maybe everything is shitty, and maybe he’s having some serious problems with not thinking about Roy Mustang, but this, at least, is good.

***

Al leaves the next morning with a “stay in bed, brother!” which Ed thinks is ridiculous, because a) he’s not in bed, he’s on a _couch_ , and b) he needs to go and earn them some money. He’s already missed half of his shift at the coffee shop, but he figures if he goes in until eight then he’ll have made up the extra time and _then_ he can get the bus straight to the lab and work on his research. And after that, he’ll have to go to the wealthier part of town and pickpocket someone, because if he doesn’t, they’ll never scrape enough money to pay for rent _and_ Al’s school _and_ bus fares _and_ Al’s iron tablets…

Ed doesn’t _like_ being criminal, but really, when you’ve got all the skills and no other options, what choice do you have?

 

Russell’s already at the coffee shop when he gets there. His eyes are red-rimmed and he smells of smoke, so Ed guesses he’s spent the last hour getting high in the back of the shop, since there’s like _no one_ here.

“Nice of you to finally turn up, Elric.” says Russell when he walks in.

“Fuck off, Tringham,” says Ed, “You realise some of us have actual _lives_ rather than just getting high in our spare time,”

“Your fuckin’ loss, man,” says Russell, and wanders into the back room again, leaving Ed to clean the machines and set mugs straight on the shelves. Which is okay, actually, because it means he at least has something to distract him from the impending eleven hours of mind-numbing boredom. That, and it keeps him from thinking about a certain really hot someone with perfect fucking hair and eyes like fucking pools of, like, ink or some shit.

 

The day drags itself onwards like a walrus with no limbs and the flu. It is excruciating, in both the metaphorical agonisingly-bored sense, and the literal three-out-of-four-limbs-are-in-a-shit-ton-of-pain way. When his shift _finally_ ends, it’s dark and Ed limps out of the store, only just managing to stop himself flipping the building off as he walks away.

Now he just has to get to the lab without having to fight off muggers or whatever.

His breath forms clouds of condensation as he makes his painful way up the street. Cars streak past blaring snatches of loud music; the streetlights flicker and occasionally give up trying to do their jobs, and Ed is really fucking cold. And tired. And hungry. And he kind of wants to just lie down in the middle of the road and let one of the beat-up convertibles run him over.

But, of course, that’s not going to happen, because he’s got Al, he’s always got Al, and he just needs to get this day over with and hopefully by the end of it he’ll have a little more money than he did when it started.

Waiting by the bus stop is nothing short of torture, and in the end Ed gives in and pulls the cigarettes out of his back pocket. Al’s voice echoes in his head as he lights up: “ _every fifteen cigarettes causes a mutation_ ” and “ _brother you’re_ going to get lung cancer _”,_ but for once Ed just doesn’t care. He knows his science, he knows his biology, he knows what nicotine and tobacco does to the body but right now? Right now he doesn’t give a fuck.

Because it’s just a small thing, the smallest thing, but it’s a piece of warmth in this overwhelming fucking cold. And after nineteen fucking years, Ed needs just a little bit of warmth.

***

Somehow he makes it to Curtis Laboratory without being threatened, or mugged, or even leered at, which is a new personal record. Ed pushes open the door and the comforting smell of chemicals and good heating washes over him; he lets himself relax as he clumps down the clean, white-walled corridors to Izumi’s room, and knocks.

“Edward Elric,” she calls from within, and he pushes open her door, grinning weakly.

“Yes ma’am.”

She spins round in her desk chair a few times, absentmindedly brushing the lapels of her lab coat, and comes to a stop facing away from him. “What time do you call this?” she asks casually, and Ed swallows.

“Uh,” he begins, and she cuts him off without raising her voice.

“I expected you four and a half hours ago,” she comments, and he tries not to turn tail and run. Izumi and her husband Sig had been the ones to take care of him and Al when they ran away from the orphanage; they’d paid their school fees, they’d taken them in and given them a _home_ for the first time in years. Ed knew Izumi, knew her like she was his mother, but he was still fucking terrified of her.

“Sorry,” he says, and tries to think of an excuse. “I…uh…I overslept.”

“Al called me,” she replies dismissively, finally turning to face him. Her eyebrows rise and she gives him a critical look, taking in his rumpled clothes and the way he held all his weight on his left leg. “Shot, huh?”

Ed feels himself go pale. _Al_ called her? Shit. She stands up and walks forward until she stands before him, the same height but somehow so much _taller_ , and her face is unreadable, her eyes blank and piercing.

“You’re supposed to be in bed, you idiot,” she says finally, and claps him on the shoulder as she walks past him and out the door. Wincing, he rubs his arm and follows her out of the room, a small smile spreading over his face. A few hours of research later and he’d be on his way to the rich-people district.

It wasn’t that Ed _liked_ being a criminal…but really, when you’ve got the skills and nowhere else to turn, it wasn’t the worst choice he could’ve made. Besides, the thrill, the danger, the feeling of being right in the fire, the possibility of getting caught…it gave him a rush like nothing else could. Most importantly, it was for Al. It was all for Al.

They were going to get through this, one way or another, in their crappy apartment with the crappy furniture and the crappy laptop they’d saved up for years to buy. They would scrape up the rent every single month by living off of nothing but pot noodle and whatever fruit was on sale at the supermarket. And Ed swore that he’d see Al get his PhD and a steady job and a house of his own with as many cats as he wanted, whatever it took.


	4. And Into the Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N- Aand the next part. I guess I could probably finish it here, to be honest....but I really don't want to. At all. Anyway, yes, I am literally speed writing this shit. I'm making it up as I go along! I have no idea what I'm doing anymore! But, like, hope you enjoy! <3

Izumi kicks him out of the lab at eleven and offers to drive him home. But Ed hasn’t forgotten that he has somewhere he needs to stop off first, so he says, “nah, don’t worry about it. I’ll get the bus, it’s quicker.”

Which is a blatant lie, but for some reason Izumi doesn’t contest it. He breathes a faint sigh of relief as he exits the lab, jogging down the steps. After two and half hours in the well-heated lab, his automail isn’t complaining as much, a fact that Ed intends to take full advantage of. Curtis Labs marks the boundary between the wealthy district and the shitty-ass poor people area of the city. The only reason that no one’s vandalised the lab yet is because the entire city is scared shitless of Izumi Curtis. Ed counts himself lucky that she taught he and Al how to defend themselves- they’d never have survived this long if she hadn’t.

He jumps a fence and climbs up a fire escape, running along the rooftop of the community hall before sliding down the railing and darting into the cover of an alleyway. That was the good thing about this city- plenty of dark corners and random streets crisscrossing the districts like veins. It made his work easier.

He’s stood in that alleyway waiting for a group to walk past so he can walk down the street not looking so out of place when he hears the cry. It’s full of pain and panic- Ed knows that kind of scream well. He hears it all the time in the suburbs. A few people look around, but most of them are already too drunk or too wrapped up in their own worlds to care. Fuck. Ed skirts a group of girls in tottering heels, and crosses the road, moving up the street in the direction of the cry. He’s just about to give up when it sounds again, closer this time, and more like a sob.

“No-!”                                                                                                               

The alleyway is just up ahead; Ed swings round the corner and peers into the darkness. There’s a figure huddled up against the wall and a second figure standing over them with a knife.

“Hey!” Shouts Ed as the figure with the knife raises it again, laughing, and they both turn, faces coming into sharp relief as the light from the street hits them. The person huddled against the wall is a kid- a kid that Ed recognises. _Fletcher Tringham_. The guy with the knife has green dreadlocks and a nasty smile; his smirk widens when he sees Ed.

“Hey, kid,” they snarl, “Get out of here before you get yourself hurt.”

“I don’t think so,” says Ed, and smiles reassuringly at Fletcher. “Hey, Fletcher,” he calls, “if you get a chance, run like hell. Leave this guy to me.” Fletcher looks up at him, wipes his nose on the back of his hand, and nods.

Dreadlocks throws their head back and laughs, gripping the knife tighter. “Is that what you think?” They ask, and Ed pulls the knife out of his boot, taking a step forwards.

“Yeah,” he says in a low voice, “I do.”

***

This kind of shit isn’t supposed to happen in the wealthy districts, but as Ed dodges one of Dreadlock’s swipes and narrowly avoids getting stabbed in the kidneys, he decides he isn’t going to spend time wondering why bad things happen right now.

Dreadlocks’ grin has taken on a more feral edge now, and their eyes are narrowed. Speaking of _narrow_ , the alleyway isn’t exactly spacious, and Ed’s fucking arm keeps slamming into the cold bricks.

“Fletcher, get out of here!” He shouts, and the younger boy picks himself up, scrambling towards the exit back to civilisation.

“Now that’s just not fair,” says Dreadlocks, and brings their leg up hard and fast, catching Ed in the ribs. He chokes, back hitting the wall, and Dreadlocks moves past him towards Fletcher, who stands paralysed in shock.

“ _Run_ , for fuck’s _sake_.” Ed gasps out, and throws his knife. It buries itself in Dreadlocks’ arm; they roar in pain and yanks it out, turning back to face Ed, and Ed roundhouse kicks them in the chest, sending them flying backwards.

“Fletcher,” says Ed, breathing hard, “I’m serious. _Run_.” Dreadlocks rolls and comes up with both their and Ed’s knives flashing in their hands, and Fletcher does what he’s told.

“Fucking _finally_ ,” says Ed, and Dreadlocks spits blood onto the ground and grins at Ed. “You scared off my food,” they say, “I’m going to have to make you pay for that.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Ed replies, “you can fuckin’ _try_.”

“Oh, I will,” promises Dreadlocks, and they move so fast Ed can barely move his head in time. Even with his reflexes, the knife scores a line in his cheek, and then he’s caught in an arm lock. This isn’t self-taught street fighting shit; this is professional. Who the fuck _is_ this guy? Ed catches his leg behind dreadlock’s and brings them both down; he rolls off, arm free, and Dreadlocks springs up again like some kind of fucking jack-in-the-box. Izumi’s lessons flicker through his mind and Ed takes a breath, feels the calm settle over him like a veil. _Attack first and without warning_. Ed feints left, kicks off the wall and kicks Dreadlocks in the side; they double over and Ed goes for an uppercut but they’re so fucking fast; dreadlocks grabs his fist and _wrenches_.

“shit!”

Ed kicks at Dreadlock’s wrist and they release him but fucking momentum is dragging him down; he spins, steadies himself against the wall and then Dreadlocks is driving their knee into Ed’s stomach again and again, and Ed manages to get one hand free to strike them in the throat and _where’s the knife_?

Ed’s ribs are on fire, his automail has is so cold it’s burning him and it feels like his skin is trying to tear itself free from him. He spots a glint of metal on the ground; his knife is lying in a puddle. It must have been dropped in the struggle and Ed dives for it, grabbing it and spraying water in Dreadlock’s face; they flinch backwards in surprise and Ed uses the gap to slash upwards with the knife. A dark line appears across Dreadlock’s chest but Ed knows it’s not very deep; he didn’t try to cut deeply and Dreadlocks laughs manically.

“Stop pulling your punches, short-stuff,” he says and Ed sees _red_.

“I am not- fucking- _short_!” he snarls, and then it’s just a sequence of moves: uppercut- back kick- feint- roundhouse- backfist- jab- front kick.

Gasping for air, Dreadlocks catches him in the face with his palm; blood fills Ed’s nose and blinding pain fills his vision, and then he hears “See ya later, shorty!” and the sound of footsteps. Then, nothing.

Ed lifts his head to an empty alleyway. His knuckles are bruised and swollen, his ribs hurt like hell and while his nose doesn’t seem broken it’s still pretty fucking tender.

He spits blood and bile onto the ground, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his hoodie. Dreadlocks is nowhere to be seen; Fletcher’s probably home by now. A kind of buzz has filled his ears, like radio static or something. It’s too quiet. Too still. Ed pulls his phone from his pocket. The screen is smashed. He notes that he should be fucking furious about that. He’s not.

 

“ _Ed?_ ”

The voice comes from behind him, from the exit back onto the street. He turns. Roy Mustang stands there, silhouetted against the working streetlights like a vision, like a dream. His face is pale and shocked- Ed doesn’t really know why. Roy knows he’s was a criminal, is it really so strange for him to find Ed covered in blood after a fight?

“Hey,” he says, and his voice is crackly.

“What- what the fuck happened?”

Swearing. That’s new. And, actually, kind of hot.

“Got in a fight,” replies Ed. His voice sound strangely distant. Weirdly calm.

“With whom? Are you alright?”

“Dunno. Some guy with dreadlocks. I’m fine, obviously.”

“Obviously?” Roy’s voice is faint. He hasn’t moved.

“Yeah. Not the first time I’ve been beaten up, idiot.”

“Right. OF course.”

For a few moments, they stare at each other. The Ed goes to take a step forwards- to walk apst him and back home- and the entire world tilts on its axis.

“fuck- _shit_ -,”

He stumbles, trips, and Roy catches him in strong, solid arms. Ed’s voice is muffled against his arm. “…..ow.”

Roy helps to stand him upright. “I… think you’re concussed,” Roy says, blinking dazedly like _he’s_ the one who’s been punched in the head, “I’m taking you to hospital.”

At this, Ed jerks his head upright, and his vision swims worryingly. “ _No_.” he hisses, and he doesn’t really know why but he is absolutely certain that he will not allow himself to be taken to hospital. _No way_ _in_ hell.

 

Roy stares down at Ed, at those golden eyes so strangely blank, and the fierceness of his newly-concussed gaze goes straight through him and hits his heart with a _boom_.

“Okay,” he says, and realises with a jolt that his mask is not in pace, that he’s been thrown off kilter by about a thousand miles and he can’t find the pieces to arrange his features into something unconcerned…”Okay,” he repeats, “but you need medical attention.”

“No I don’t, ‘m fine,” says Ed, and shuffles to get his feet steady under him. Roy realises that he’s still encircling him with his arms, and Ed seems to realise the same thing at the same time, because he slowly raises his head to look Roy in the eyes and he’s so _close_ and even with blood on his face and bruises on his cheeks, he is _mesmerising_.

“You have really dark eyes,” says Ed. Roy’s throat is made of sandpaper.

“Thank you,” he rasps. Ed’s arm comes up, his fingers, fasten themselves in Roy’s collar and this is ridiculous, this is wrong, he needs to get Ed to a hospital or- or _something_ -

-Ed’s lips are warm and soft, and for a second Roy loses himself in the kiss.

But then his eyes fly open and he jerks back, letting his arms fall away from Ed’s shoulders. He clears his throat. A smile is curling around Ed’s mouth. He licks his lips.

“You- you’re seriously injured, and you need medical attention, especially if you’re concussed.” Says Roy, and Ed shakes his head slowly.

“…yeah,” he says, “I actually think you might be right. Like, super right. No hospitals. I’ll kill you.”

And then he passes out.

What the fuck is Roy supposed to do now?

 

***

When Ed wakes up, his head hurts, but it’s a manageable pain. There is also something very cold pressed against his jaw, and he can feel the itch of bandages around his chest. Where is he?

Carefully, he reaches up, and peels the ice pack away from his jaw. He opens his eyes, blinking rapidly as they adjust to the bright light. He’s lying on a couch, in a warmly lit room. Directly ahead of him in a window, with blue curtains. To his right is a big open fireplace. Flames are crackling merrily. What the fuck.

He struggles into a sitting position, gritting his teeth as his ribs twinge painfully. He looks around again, taking in the openness of the room, and swings his legs over the side of the couch so he’s facing forwards. He’s fully clothed, still in the hoodie and jeans he wore…last night….wait.

Last night. The fight, the guy with Dreadlocks, Fletcher Tringham. What had happened? A hard edge digs into his hip. His phone. He pulls it out of his pocket and- the screen is fucking _smashed_. Cracks spiderweb outwards from the impact point in the centre of the screen and Ed is so _fucked_ , he doesn’t have enough money to afford a new one…he presses the on button and…the screen lights up. _Yes_. He goes to unlock it and- fucking _shit_ , it flickers, dies, and displays the no battery symbol.

Fucking _great_.

Okay, okay, so…the fight. Dreadlocks had disappeared, leaving Ed with a smashed up nose and a concussion, and then…

Oh, no.

Oh, _fuck_ , no, that couldn’t be right, that couldn’t be….

Roy Mustang peers round the doorway and Ed’s heart flops.

 

“are you feeling alright?” asks Roy, and hands him a glass of water and some tablets.

“What the fuck is this?” Ed asks, eyeing the tablets distrustfully.

“Painkillers.” replies Roy, and sighs. “Look, I work for the _police_. I’m not going to poison you.”

Ed squints at him, and- well, hell, he feels like shit. He takes the painkillers, downing the water and setting the glass on the coffee table in front of him.

“Let me reiterate my earlier question,” says Roy, taking a seat next to him, carefully leaving twelve inches between them, “Are you feeling alright?”

“yeah, fuckin’ great,” says Ed sarcastically, and probes at his ribs. “You bandage me up?”

“Well. Yes. I’ve done first aid training.”

First aid training. Al was doing first aid training… _Al._ Fuck. “What time is it?” Ed asks, and Roy checks his fancy-pants watch.

“Two AM.” He replies, and Ed groans.

“Fuuuuck. Okay. I need to go- get back to my brother.”

“Oh- right. Of course. Do you want to call him?” Roy stands up, and offers Ed a hand. HE stares at his fingers for a few seconds. Last night. They’d… _he’d_ kissed Roy, hadn’t he. And Roy had kissed him back.

Why was he so good at fucking things up?

“Sure. Uh. Thanks.” Ed grips his hand, lets himself be pulled upright. They stand there for a second, and _it_ is there, unspoken, hanging in the air between them, and even now Ed’s lips are remembering the feel of Roy’s….

“I’ll fetch the phone,” says Roy hastily, pulling his hand away, breaking the silence.

“Oh. Right, yeah.” Ed nods and hugs his arms to himself as Roy leaves the room, footsteps soft on the thick carpet. It’s a nice house; the kind of house Ed’s only over dreamed of.

What the fuck is he going to do now? And what is Al going to say?

Roy comes back in holding a phone. He hands it to Ed and Ed punches in the number to their apartment, pressing call. Roy looks like he wants to say something, but can’t bring himself to. Ed knows _that_ feeling.

“ _Brother_?”

“Hey, Al.” Ed knows he sounds tired; even if he tries to hide it, Al will be able to tell.

“ _Where are you?! I’ve been worried sick!_ ”

“Uh. I’m. Uh. You remember that guy whose wallet I stole?” This is so fucking awkward; Roy is staring at him, he can see it from the corner of his eye.

“ _What? Roy Mustang? The detective?”_

“Uh, yeah. I’m….at his house, I guess.” Roy doesn’t correct him, so he must be right. Ten points to Edward Elric.

“What? _Why_?”

“Al- you have to promise not to freak out, okay-,”

“ _Freak out? I’m not freaking out. Did he hurt you? If he hurt you I’ll kill him. Did you use protection, brother?”_

“ _What_?! No! Al! You- _no_! I got in a fight, actually, and I had concussion, and he found me!”

“ _you were in a_ fight _?_ Again _, brother? Are you hurt?”_

“….kind of. Not really.”

“ _Brother_.”

“I’m telling the truth!”

***

 

The headache has all but disappeared, but Ed can’t say the same for the rest of his injuries. Al’s on his way over after forbidding Ed from moving, and Roy is sitting next to Ed on the couch with a cup of coffee. Ed cradles his own mug and tries not to think about the living, breathing sculpture of perfection seated like, three inches away.

When the silence has grown too big to be controlled, Ed clears his throat.

“So, uh, I guess I should say thanks,” he says awkwardly. Roy looks up, all ruffled hair and sleepy eyes and- shit, he’s so fucking beautiful Ed’s going to have a heart attack.

“It’s alright, really,” says Roy, “I couldn’t very well leave you there.”

“yeah but…you didn’t take me to hospital. And you fixed my ribs and shit, so…thanks.

Roy’s eyes are really dark.

“Why didn’t you want to go hospital?”

It was inevitable- he was always going to ask, but Ed still tenses up at the question.

“I mean- if you don’t mind telling me,” Roy adds quickly, but Ed shakes his head.

“Nah, it’s okay. It’s just- after my mom died, me ‘n Al were basically orphans since our dad fucked off a long time ago. So we did a lot of shit that we wouldn’t have done if there’d been, like, an adult there, you know? Shit like picking the lock on our neighbour’s car and jumpstarting it from instructions we found on the internet. And it’s a long story but you can kinda guess what happened- we crashed, obviously, and I was pretty fucking screwed up after that. I mean, you’ve seen my automail.”

Roy nods, and he’s leaning forwards now, utterly intent on every one of Ed’s words. Why is he telling him all of this? Fuck it, it’s not like he can stop now.

“Yeah, so all that shit happened, and I was in the hospital for a year getting the prosthetics fitted, and. Well. Al was…Al was in a coma for most of it. And he’s my only brother, you know? The only family I’ve really got. So that was pretty fucking shitty, too.”

There’s silence when he’s done speaking, and then Roy’s hand is on his arm, and he says, “That’s awful. How old were you?”

“I was ten when it all went down,” says Ed, and his throat feels like it’s full of broken glass, “Al was nine.”

“And…that’s why you steal?”

“Yeah,” Ed says, staring intently at his lap. Roy’s hand is warm, warm, warm on his arm. “It’s the only choice we’ve really got.”

“I’m sorry.”

Ed looks up. “What?” Roy looks at him, earnest and sincere, and something in Ed melts and shatters and reforms into something fiery.

“I’m sorry all that happened to you,” Roy explains, “and I suppose I should apologise for last night as well.”

 _Last night_. The words were so fucking _intimate_. But all they’d done was kiss. Right?

“What do you mean?” Ed asks slowly, warily. They’d just kissed, hadn’t they? Fuck, what if they’d had sex?

Roy suddenly looks self-conscious. He removes his hand from Ed’s arm, and Ed finds he misses the warmth of it.

“For kissing you when you were concussed,” he says, “it was wrong of me, and I’m sorry.”

For a second, Ed just stares at him, stares into his eyes, incredulous.

And then he starts laughing.

 

And once he starts laughing, he can’t _stop_ , and Roy is just frowning at him and there’s this little crease in his brow and Ed _can’t stop laughing_.

“Is something funny?” Roy asks stiffly, and Ed, still chuckling weakly, squints up at him.

“ _I_ kissed _you_ , dumbass,” he says finally, and now that he’s stopped laughing he can fully appreciate the firelight playing over the planes of Roy’s face, “you don’t have to apologise for that.”

And Roy is closer, now, somehow- or maybe it’s Ed that’s closer, maybe it was Ed that moved…

Roy’s hands, _god_. Long, slender fingers and the blue veins crossing over the backs like rivers. There’s a faint scar on the back of his left one; Ed can imagine his hands and what they could do…

His breath tangles with Ed’s as their noses bump; who moved when Ed doesn’t have a fucking clue but here they are, and his arm is sending jabbing pain through his nervous system and his ribs are fucking flaming but Ed doesn’t _care_ because everything is Roy Roy Roy Roy.

 

Ed loops his hands around Roy’s neck and Roy’s breath catches. His chest pressed so close against Roy’s; his _hands_ : scarred and painfully cute- how hands can be cute Roy doesn’t know, but Ed has cute hands. He does.

He’s strong and battered and his muscles flex- _god-_ under Roy’s palms and even bruised like this, with shadows under his eyes telling tales of too many sleepless nights, he is breathtakingly flawed. Rough and perfect, all at once.

Their lips meet, their eyelashes catch and brush each other’s cheeks, their legs are tangled together and Roy’s already hard; he _knows_ Ed is already hard and honestly he’s never been so excited about sex- about _kissing_ someone, even- before they’ve even started before.

The kiss deepens, Roy’s heart is hammering like it wants to break free of his chest; Ed’s swallowed moans are driving him _crazy_ …What is he doing? This- _Ed_. They’re practically strangers, and this is _insane_ , and, and , and…Roy can’t think of anything else. There _is_ nothing else. Just this, here, now.

In the firelight, Ed _glows_ , soft and golden, and something is happening in Roy’s chest but he doesn’t know what it means.

He’s never felt like this. Never.

And it’s terrifying, and beautiful, and he has never, ever been so fucking glad to have his wallet stolen.


	5. Steal my Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N- wrote this yesterday after school, so it's really short and probably terrible. oh well- I have to leave in ten minutes so I'm posting this quickly!! The IS the smut chapter (or one of them) so feel free to skip if that's not your thing! I mean, it's not hardcore smut because I cannot write smutty scenes to save my life but...whatever. Just please come back afterward?

There’s only so far kissing can go before it turns into something else. Roy knows this, knows that it would be a _really_ bad idea to take this any further, especially considering, you know, the fact that Ed’s had two hours sleep and still looks as though he’s been- well. Like he’s been beaten to within an inch of his life.

Roy knows this, but somehow he can’t get the words out from where they’re stuck somewhere in the middle of his chest.

Ed straddling him, his fingers tugging at his waistband and is this really happening? Roy swallows a moan, his hands are tangled in Ed’s hair and as Ed lowers his body to grind his hips against Roy’s, he slides his fingers free and lowers them instead to grasp Ed’s frankly beautiful ass.

Ed bites down hard on Roy’s bottom lip and Roy thinks this might be the angriest of angry sex he’s ever had before. And that maybe, just maybe, he likes it a lot.

 

The stabbing pains in his automail have abated- the air is fucking teeming with energy and Ed is pretty sure his breath is steaming and it’s not because of the cold. Who’d have guessed that the best way to generate enough heat to cure automail pain is a good old bout of sex? Or foreplay. Whatever- at this point, Ed doesn’t _care_ , he just wants more of it.

See, the thing is, Roy is kind of the best thing right now. Ed needs a release- desperately. And Roy, _Roy_ , he’s just…a blank fuckin’ slate, to be perfectly honest. He’s got some shit trapped in there, in his head, behind his eyes, but Ed doesn’t mind. Ed doesn’t know this guy. He knows his body, sure, he knows the slant of his eyes and the points of his cheekbones, and maybe he doesn’t fuckin’ trust the guy but then who _does_ he trust? Al. Himself, sometimes. And that’s it.

Roy groans and it’s the sexiest thing Ed’s ever heard; he’s fumbling for the buttons on Roy’s shirt and Roy’s hands…fuck, he knew those hands could do fuckin’ wonderful things, and right now they’re kneading at his ass and it feels _so fucking good_ …

The shirt falls away from Roy’s chest and it’s like…pale skin, muscles and the smooth bowl-like curve of his stomach; a valley cupped by his hipbones. A scar, ragged-edged and the size of two hands side by side, stretches over his side and part of his stomach like an ink drop in water. Ed traces his fingers down it and Roy opens his eyes, breathing out sharply. It only lasts a second, but Ed swears he feels something… _else_ , between them, charged in the space between their lips and their chests.

Then it’s over, and Ed reaches for Roy’s belt, _fuck_ Roy’s belt, fuck _clothes_ , who needs clothes anyway? Roy moves his hands from his ass to his hoodie, tugging gently, questioningly, and Ed swallows, hesitates for a fraction of a second (what about all the scars, the bruises, the ugliness he hides under all his layers of protection?) then, fuck it, yanks it over his head. There isn’t time to care, he averts his eyes from Roy’s face (because he can’t fucking bear to see the revulsion there) and concentrates on getting rid of _that fucking belt_.

 

Ed’s hair is loose and mussed; he leans down to kiss Roy, heated and angry and messy, and Roy drags his hands through Ed’s hair, flicking the tie to the carpet and letting it hang down on either side of his head like a curtain.

This is…beyond feverish. This is more than _want_ or _lust_ and it’s uncontrollable; Roy couldn’t stop it if he tried.

Ed’s body, Ed’s chest, broad and lean and muscular. The white bandage is crisp against the expanse of golden skin, so beautiful Roy _aches_ with need.

“Ed,” he gasps, “wait- you’re injured, you should be _resting_ , your brother will be here soon…”

Ed growls, low in his chest and just like that Roy’s gone again, swept under. The waves close over his head and he doesn’t even _care_ , he just needs, needs…

“So hurry the fuck up, bastard,” says Ed, breath moist against the skin of his stomach, dropping lower, lower, lower….Roy moans again, fists a hand in that golden hair, tries to remember how to breathe.

***

When all is said and done, when Ed has uttered at least a thousand expletives and finally trailed off into an orgasm that leaves him panting and grinning, when the stars have stopped bursting in front of Roy’s eyes and he can blink, slowly, brain still fizzing like a pot boiling over….

When all is said and done, it’s fucking incredible, actually.

“ _God_ ,” says Ed, rolling off of him and stretching for a long, delicious moment. “I had to wait _way_ too long for that.”

Roy has to take a minute to remember how to talk before finally clearing his throat and saying, “It was worth it, I hope.”

“Hell _yeah_ it was worth it,” mutters Ed, and shakes his hair away from his sweat-slicked skin, smiling content and just a little bit dangerous. He rolls his shoulders back, and looks around idly. “Where are my clothes?”

“On the floor probably,” Roy says, perfectly happy to just lie here in a puddle of post-coital bliss. Ed apparently has other ideas, though, because he’s leaning over and tugging his trousers back on. Roy remembers that his brother will be here soon- honestly, it’s a miracle he didn’t interrupt them in the middle of it- and reluctantly pulls his own underwear back on, buttoning his shirt. He’s just looking around for his trousers when a voice echoes in from the kitchen.

“Are you two done in there?”

Ed’s eyes widen. Roy’s stomach is somewhere around the region of his toes.

 _Shit_.

 

Roy is dressed both literally and mentally when Ed sticks his head out form the kitchen.

His face, he knows is the perfect mixture of sheepishness, confusion and concern. This hides the fact that he is _absolutely terrified_. Absolutely terrified is not something that Roy Mustang feels very often- absolutely terrified is reserved for late nights, for gasping into wakefulness at three a.m. with a head full of blood and screams. Absolutely terrified is reserved for times when he’s lost his footing and he can’t see a thing. It’s not just because of Ed’s brother- Al?- and it’s not just because he’s made a colossal mistake with this, with Ed. It’s because he’s never felt this way before, as cliché as that sounds even to his own brain. He’s loath to admit it, even in the privacy of his own head. He’s seen Ed, what, four times, including last night? Detective Roy Mustang doesn’t feel like this after one night and a kiss. Detective Roy Mustang doesn’t feel like this after one _year_ and a kiss.

Detective Roy Mustang, this Roy, is nothing but a collection of well-thought-out expressions and a cocky persona. Detective Roy Mustang isn’t real, but he’s the only thing Roy’s _got_ \- because without his carefully cultivated masks, he’s just too many drinks and a head full of memories. What has he gotten himself into? This boy, this man, this beautiful, golden-eyed creature…Edward Elric.

Roy’s in too deep. He can’t remember what the surface looks like anymore.

 

“Thanks for everything, Mustang,” calls Ed as he leaves the house, not looking back. His voice is painfully casual. Painfully _forced_ casual.

When he emerged from the kitchen, for a second he looked grim-faced and…weary. Longing. In the time it had taken Roy to blink at him, his faced had transitioned to uncaring, but Roy knew the score. After all, he’d spent enough time assembling his own masks.

“Brother’s never been a very good liar,” remarks Al from in front of Roy. He’s at least half a head shorter, but he seems taller, somehow, like he’s at least seven feet tall and possibly wearing an intimidating suit of armour. Roy tries not to shut the door on his scary-calm eyes and run. “But I think you should know that when he decides to do something, he never does it half-heartedly. I think you’ve guessed that.”

Roy had guessed that. He’d guessed that the moment he met Edward Elric, at a bar on one of the shittiest nights of his life. That was possibly one of the things that had drawn him in: the intensity of Ed’s aureate gaze and the raw strength contained in the breadth of his shoulders.

Roy doesn’t say anything. Al has read it all in his face. He sighs, low.

“I hope you realise the choice you’ve made,” he says quietly, but with enough steel behind his words that a chill runs up Roy’s spine. Then he turns and follows his brother into the slowly growing dawn.

Roy sags against his doorframe. _No_ , he wants to call after Al’s retreating figure, _I don’t have the_ slightest clue _what I’ve gotten myself into, actually._


	6. Everyone's a Criminal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N- PLOT! kind of. a bit. It's there somewhere, I promise! I'm churning these out as quick as I can, okay? hopefully I'll have another one out by midnight. I swear, it takes me three hours to write _one_ chapter, not including editing (which I don't even do, because editing is boring). Anyway- gotta get back to writing! Enjoooy

“Al,” Ed begins as he closes the apartment door safely behind them, “look-,”

“There’s nothing to explain, brother,” says Al cheerfully, “But I _will_ have a look at your injuries. Come here.” Slowly, Ed complies. Al’s not mad, he can tell that much. Or, at least, he’s not mad at _Ed_. Which is something, right? Al goes into the other room and rummages for a minute in their emergency stuff. Ed groans inwardly; this doesn’t _count_ as an emergency.

“You worry too much,” He mutters, and Al walks back in, practically skipping, brandishing a very large first aid kit.

“Shirt,” he replies. This time, Ed’s groan is audible.

 

“Who was it, anyway?” Al asks as he inspects the bandages crossing Ed’s ribs.

“Detective Roy Mustang,” says Ed absentmindedly, dropping his head back against the back of the couch. He’s been running on nothing but adrenaline for the past two days, and now he’s coming crashing down like a fuckin’ freight train falling off a cliff.

“No, brother,” says Al, peeling the bandage away and probing lightly at the edges of the purple-black bruises spreading over his right side. “The one you were fighting. Who was it?”

“Oh. I dunno.” This bothers him- he’s got plenty of enemies, sure, _especially_ after the whole thing with the Scarred Killer two years ago, but he knows their names, at least. Al keeps tabs on them , too; this is new and unknown. Which _bothers_ him. “Some guy with green dreadlocks and a nasty smile. Pretty sure they were androgynous, but, like, I didn’t exactly stop to ask.”

Al looks up at, frowning. “I thought you’d gotten drunk and picked a fight with a mugger again,” he says carefully, “are you telling me that’s not what happened?”

“Jesus fuck, Al! That happened _once_ \- and _no_ , that’s not what happened! I was on my way to- to a bar, and I heard someone scream. Fletcher Tringham. His brother works at Roasty Toasty.” Ed looks down at the splotches discolouring his skin. Good thing it wasn’t on the other side; he’s broken those ribs before and he doesn’t need it to happen again in the same place…

“Fletcher Tringham,” says Al thoughtfully, “Studies botany. His brother’s pretty famous with some of the guys at college,” he adds delicately, and Ed snorts.

“Yeah, with the drug addicts, you mean. I swear, the guy’s permanently high. Fletcher’s a good kid, though,” he says, and draws a sharp breath in through his teeth as Al presses a cold compress firmly onto the centre of the bruise.

“Hold that there,” Al instructs, and picks up an antiseptic wipe to dab at Ed’s forehead.

“Knock it off, Al,” he protests, “I’m _fine_ , seriously, get _off_ you old woman-,” He flails ineffectually at Al’s firm ministrations, automail complaining and he really needs some fucking _coffee_.

“You look like you’ve been hit by a car,” says Al, “And then run over by a large concrete roller. And then picked up and thrown off a cliff, possibly crashing into some trees on the way down.”

“I do _not_ ,” says Ed stubbornly, craning his neck to look in the direction of the kitchen and, more impotantly, the coffee pot. The painkillers Ro- Mustang gave him are wearing off and, yeah, he’s been through worse, and maybe he deserves it, but he’d still really like a fucking cup of _fucking_ coffee-

“Brother,” says Al quietly, “what makes you think you ‘deserve’ to be beaten to within an inch of your life?”

Shit. He’d been talking out loud. Cough, look confused, pretend you don’t know what he’s talking about.

“Huh?”

“I’m not stupid, brother,” Al snaps, and sits back to stare Ed in the eyes. His face is tight, his eyes are pinched, and he looks tired. Guilt hits Ed in the stomach, worse than any kick to the ribs, and winds itself around his guts.

“I know you’re not, Al,” he says, and drops his eyes to look at his hands fisted in his lap. “Just- it’s, you know, it’s _my fault_ we’re even in this situation and you deserve… _so much_ better and-,”

“And what, Ed?” asks Al, “And _what_? It’s not your fault- don’t. Say anything. It’s _not_. We did what we had to do, both of us did. You were _ten_. You know that. And you _know_ that it wasn’t your fault, because you’re not stupid enough to actually believe that a ten year old would’ve had any idea what was going on!”

He stops talking, and Ed can feel his eyes boring into the top of his head, and he’s so tired. There is a moment of silence, and Al says quietly, “No one blames you except _you,_ brother.”

Shocked, Ed raises his head, and Al seizes his chin. “Now hold _still_ , there’s blood all over you,”

 

 _…No one blames you except for you_. If that was true- which it isn’t, but _if_ it was true- then Ed still doesn’t see the point. _I_ blame me. Isn’t that enough?

Apparently not, but then the universe was unfairly fair like that. Equivalent exchange: Ed would spend the rest of his life ensuring Al’s wouldn’t be the colossal fuck up of the past. He didn’t mind- really. If it was for Al, then he’d do anything, _anything_ , anything at all. So he didn’t mind. It was only fair, after all.

But still, it would be nice, to have something good for once. To have a break from it all, even if was just one night with a dark-eyed detective; it was nice.

Was it fair for him to want more? Was it equivalent for Ed to want to see him again?

No. He knew that, knew that but still he couldn’t help himself wanting it.

 

The sky has silvered, dawn has crept silently up on them and turned the whole world grey and pale. Rain slides down the windows, the thin, crappy windows, and Ed hugs the blanket tighter to himself. Snooky kneads at the couch and opens her mouth wide to yawn, displaying sharp, milk-white fangs. Al comes in balancing two mugs on top of his biology textbook.

“That better be coffee,” Ed said, voice muffled from where he’d buried himself in layers of blanket, then groans when Al sets his makeshift tray on the end table and hands him a steaming mug of- “ _Soup_? Really, Al?”

“It’s very good for you, brother,” rebukes Al, nudging Ed’s feet away from the end of the couch so he can sit down. “Made with the finest soup powder from the corner store.”

“I thought the corner store closed down after that gang of Freddy Mercury wannabes graffitied it with, like, dog shit.”

“It reopened, and how do you know who Freddy mercury is?” asks Al, interested suddenly.

Ed frowns. “How am I supposed to fuckin’ know? All you ever talk about is _good music_. Jesus. Can I have the laptop?”

“Just because you’re injured doesn’t mean I’m going to get everything for you.”

“Why _not_? You suck.”

“I think Roy Mustang would say that _you’re_ the one who sucks, actually,” says Al, and the blush hits Ed’s face like a slew of red paint.

“ _What_ -?!”

 

***

 

He’s back here again, then. The office. The coffee machine. Maes standing like an eager puppy by his desk. And Ed, Ed in the back of mind like a constant worry, like something that you can never quite let go of. _I hope you realise the choice you’ve made_. Not even a little bit.

“Late again, I see!” Maes’ voice comes from just behind his ear, and it takes him some valuable willpower to stop himself from jumping.

“Quite,” he replies dryly, and collects his filled coffee cup from the machine.

“Sleep well?”

Roy mentally narrows his eyes, doesn’t look up, and says, “Fairly. Why do you ask?”

“You look tired, Roy-boy. Up late?”

“I was here until eleven reviewing the case files you gave me yesterday, so I suppose you could say that, yes.”

“Maybe if you got your work done in the daytime instead of accompanying the police on perfectly routine call-outs, you wouldn’t have had to stay overtime.”

Roy sets his coffee on the desk and shrugs off his jacket. “Someone pulled a _gun_ in a supermarket. That’s not exactly ‘routine’, Maes.”

“We still talking about the same city here?” Maes grins at him, pulling a chair over and settling into it. “Because, you know, it kind of _is_.”

Roy rolls his eyes, pressing a few keys on his laptop to wake it up. “Thank you, Riza,” he says, accepting the folders she passes him on her way out of the door. “Just what I needed.”

“There’s more when you’re finished with those, Sir,” is all she says in reply.

“Want to know what I think?” Maes asks, leaning forwards. Roy is struck with a sudden sense of déjà vu, and not the fun kind. He opens up the police homepage and logs in, scrolling through ongoing cases.

“I’m sure you’ll tell me anyway,” he says idly, clicking on a case labelled ‘Scarred Killer’. Imaginative.

“I think you’re trying to distract yourself.”

He was _sure_ he’d heard the name before; why hadn’t he thought of this sooner?

“’Distract myself’,” he echoes, “I’ll take it into account.”

 _There_. Edward Elric, 16, injured in an attack by the Scarred Killer…impressive: an unarmed teenager manages to drive the legendary serial killer, thought to be a religious fanatic targeting scientific research centres and their prominent members, to retreat. Whoever had written this report was quite clearly in awe of the then-sixteen year old…but that was three years ago. Where was the case at now?

Maes was saying something. Roy turned, “Sorry,” he said, “I wasn’t listening. It’s become a reflex after hearing you gush about your wife non-stop for the past four years. What did you say?”

Maes folds his arms. “I _said_ , you’ve been assigned a new case. Terrorist group calling themselves the ‘homunculi’. My team and yours, working together! Won’t that be nice?”

Roy blows out a long breath. A new case. At least it’ll be something to take his mind off…certain things. He closes the lid of his laptop. He can look into Edward Elric and his mysterious past some other time.

“Sounds interesting enough,” he replies, “do you have the initial report on you?”

Maes whips a manila folder form inside his jacket. “It’s your lucky day, Roy! One library and two research laboratories blown up already!” He hands the folder to Roy, then hesitates, holding it back as Roy reaches for it. “Just one thing. I don’t know if Riza told you yet, but Frank Archer and a few of his men have been put onto the case as well.”

“Archer?” Roy curses under his breath. “Why? Tell them we can handle it on our own.”

“Too late, paperwork went through this morning. Don’t look at me like that- I only found out two hours ago. Just…don’t do anything stupid, alright?” His eyes, normally dancing with laughter or mischief, are deadly serious behind his glasses. Roy works his jaw, and takes the folder.

“Alright.”

 

***

At midday, Ed goes to the bathroom to check his injuries in peace. Looking at himself in the mirror above the tiny sink, he sees what Al means when he says “you look tired, brother.”

There are deep shadows smudged under his eyes and his hair hangs matted and tangled. The skin above the automail on his right arm is pink and swollen and most of his left upper-arm is covered with a bandage. Ed supposes he’s lucky that the bullet only nicked him. He never would have survived the fight with Dreadlocks for as long as he had with a full-on gunshot wound.

And his ribs. God. The bruising is stormy dark, the edges gradually turning green-blue and, yeah, Ed’s starting to look like a picture out of a domestic abuse leaflet.

All this, and Roy looked at him like he was a work of art.

Maybe he had a thing for injuries- maybe he was a sadistic creep and Ed was lucky to have escaped when he did. He’s not naïve; he knows that a police officer is just as likely to beat and rape a defenceless person as any skulking back-alley gutter-rat. But it hadn’t felt like that, hadn’t looked like that. Ed’s been _stared_ at before, he’s been catcalled and leered at and he’s had to fight off his own share of fucking rapists and murderers- and he knows what it feels like when one of _them_ looks at you. Even when they’re pretending, and they smile at you and whisper empty promises into your ear; Ed’s learnt, by now, to look them in the eyes and find the part that’s missing before it’s too late.

Roy’s eyes had been deep and dark as the sea at night; sure, there were secrets and memories buried in them, things that turned his face haunted in moments when he thought no one was looking, but who doesn’t have some things they’d rather forget?

Fuck, Al’s poetic crap has gotten to him. Ed needs a drink, preferably an alcoholic one.

His automail leg is freezing, though, so instead, he turns on the shower and waits for the water to heat up.

Green dreadlocks. Professional martial arts. Like Ed, experience in a knife fight. Who the fuck was that guy? Was he after Fletcher for a reason? Or was it just another wrong-place-wrong-time scenario? Fuck knows Ed’s seen enough of those. Fuck knows Ed’s seen enough, full stop. He drags a hand through his hair, turns away from the mirror. All he has to do is hold on. All he has to do is keep moving forwards and _fuck_ whatever shit he left behind.

And tomorrow, he’s going to find out exactly who the hell this Dreadlocks guy is.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N- I KNOW I SAID I'D POST THIS LAST NIGHT BUT I REALLY HAVE TO GO RIGHT NOW AND ALSO THERE WAS A FAMILY EMERGENCY SORRY SORRY ENJOY I LOVE YOU

“What do you think would happen if I just googled ‘green dreadlocks criminal’?” Ed calls over the back of the couch. Al is sitting in the kitchen counter, on the phone to Winry. He looks over, covering the mouthpiece and hisses, “I don’t _know_ , brother, try it if you really want to- I’m trying to talk, here.”

“Yeah, yeah,” mutters Ed, “just because you prefer Winry over me.”

He types the words into the searchbar anyway, and hits enter.

“Hey, Al, did you know you can get dreadlock wigs?”

“ _Brother_ , I’m _trying_ to _talk_.”

 

 _“_ Nothing!” says Ed, throwing his head back ten minutes later, “I even hacked into the police criminal records- literally nothing. Even the Freddy Mercury wannabes had criminal records! No one _doesn’t_ have a criminal record in this fucking city!”

“Evidently, that’s not true,” says Al dryly, and holds the phone over the back of the couch. “Here, Winry wants to talk to you.”

Ed winces. _The automail_? He mouths, and Al raises an eyebrow.

“Why don’t you ask her, brother,” he says, “I’m heading out- I have afternoon classes today.”

“Ew. Fine. See you later- be safe- don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”

“Brother, I don’t think there _is_ anything you wouldn’t do.”

“That’s not true! I probably wouldn’t snort crushed paracetamol.”

“ _Probably_?”

Ed grins at Al’s back as he exits, then looks down at the phone. He raises it warily to his ear.

“Uh, Winry? Hello?”

“ _Edward Elric.”_

“That’s…me…”

“ _What’s this Al tells me about a_ dent _in your automail because you were_ shot _?”_

“What? _What?_ No- no way! That’s not even slightly true, Winry, I prom-,”

He hurriedly holds the phone away from his ear as she starts shouting- it’s usually along the same lines anyway, so it’s not like he _needs_ to listen…

“- _my beautiful automail, and you could’ve been_ killed _, do you even think about that anymore? I swear, it’s that city, why would anyone_ choose _to live there?!”_

She pauses to breathe, and Ed takes that as his queue to jump in. “I don’t think anyone actually chooses to live here,” he says, “It’s one of those last-resort things. How’s school?”

“ _College, dumbass. And it’s going fine. I got an apprenticeship at a prosthetics lab! I messaged you on facebook about it but you didn’t reply,_ as usual _. Why do you even have facebook if you’re just going to ignore it everytime another human tries to make contact with you? Are you ignoring me or something, you ass?”_

“First of all, I only have facebook because you _made_ me, and second of all, I am not ignoring you! I’m talk to you right now, aren’t I? What are you, twelve?”

A thousand miles away, Winry sniffs imperiously. “ _Whatever. Dumbass.”_

Ed can’t help it; he smiles fondly down the phone at her. “Machine geek.”

“ _You better believe it, science nerd. Do you need me to come down to take a look at the automail? Al mentioned something about a_ dent _, don’t think you’ve made me forget about it!”_

….Does he want Winry to come down? He knows Al does, and he hasn’t seen her for- well. For years, actually. Strange, how time passes like that. But the city’s dangerous, and he doesn’t want to put more people in danger…But Al wants to see her, and it _has_ been years…and his automail is kind of dented. Maybe a lot. And the swelling won’t go down.

“If you want, gearhead. Hey, there’s a girl at the local supermarket who’s your type! Dyed hair and weird names, yeah?”

“ _Like you can talk about weird names_ Edward Elric _,”_ replies Winry, but he can hear the smile in her voice. “ _Is she cute_?”

Ed wrinkles his nose. “Like I’d know anything about that,” he says, “ask Al. Speaking of, he’s got a _thing_ with some chick called Mei. I need you to vet her.”

“ _’Vet her’? Why don’t you just let Al have a bit of freedom first, Ed? You’re like a mother hen, you know that, right?”_

“Before you start going on about how Al is much more sensible than me, and how he makes much better decisions that I do because of it, let me remind you that-,”

“ _That what? Face it, Ed, you can’t think of a single instance in which Al has been more immature than you. I swear, you’re meant to be the older one but it’s like it’s the other way round sometimes.”_

“How would you know that? We haven’t _seen_ you for a decade or some shit.”

“ _Which is why I’ll be at the station at five tomorrow. Come pick me up.”_

“Huh? You’ve booked tickets?”

“ _Yep. There’s this thing, right, called_ multitasking _. You’re probably not familiar with it, actually…”_

***

 _The homunculi_. Roy spins around once in his chair, scanning the file for the third time. Terrorist organisation- who haven’t stated their demands. They’d taken hostages before, but every time had killed them without a ransom or a demand. Their most recent movements: blowing up a library and two scientific research labs.

“What were the labs researching?” he wonders aloud, and Hughes rolls over, pushing his chair along with his foot.

“Artificial life, apparently,” he says, “Unsure whether or not they made any progress.”

“Hmm,” Roy muses, “Artificial life? Sounds like the Scarred Killer’s kind of thing…wait a second.”

He flips open the lid of his laptop again, skimming through the page he’d just been visiting. “Here.” He points at the screen, and Maes looks closer to see. “It was three years ago, but the Scarred Killer, a serial murderer and religious fanatic, targeted scientific research centres and their members, most commonly those researching _artificial life_ …”

Hughes frowns. “Is that case still open?” he reaches over Roy’s desk and steals the notepad from the corner, making a few notes.

Roy shrugs. “Apparently. It’s still marked ‘ongoing’, but it doesn’t look like any progress has been made.”

“I see.” Hughes pulls Roy’s laptop closer to him before Roy can protest, and scrolls to the bottom of the page. “Aha.”

“What?”

Maes spins the laptop back around to face Roy. “The detective in charge of the Scarred Killer’s case.” He says gravely.

“Frank Archer.”

Roy’s hands tighten. “So that’s why he’s been transferred to our investigation.”

If Frank Archer was in charge of the Scarred Killer’s case, then he must have come into contact, or at least heard of, Edward Elric. Things were getting more interesting by the second.

“Speak of the devil,” murmurs Hughes, and Roy looks at him sharply. Maes nods behind him, towards the door. “Game face, Roy,” he says quietly, clapping him gently on the shoulder before spinning back round and rolling his chair over to his new desk.

Roy swallows. _Game face_. Hard to keep your poker face perfect when every particle of your body hates the man standing before you. But Roy’s fairly adept in keeping his poker face perfect, so when Riza comes over and says, “Sir. Frank Archer’s just arrived. He says he’s been transferred to our team to work on the ‘homunculi’ case,” he doesn’t break his relaxed posture.

“Thank you, Riza,” he says, and turns in his seat to face Archer, standing in the doorway flanked by two of his men- a word like ‘cronies’ would be a more suitable description- and smirking very softly.

How dare he. Smirking was _Roy’s_ thing.

“Ah, Detective Archer,” Roy greets him pleasantly, standing up and walking over. “Sorry about starting the investigation without you.”

“Not at all,” replies Archer smoothly, and their eyes may only meet for a fraction of a second, but it’s enough to convey the oceans of loathing they feel for each other. Coolly, Roy gestures for Archer to come in further.

“This is the board we’re working from,” he says, motioning to the large whiteboard already half-covered in annotated pictures and notes. “And I’m glad you were assigned here- we actually have a few questions for you relating to the Scarred Killer’s case, if you don’t mind?” 'Glad'. Has a greater lie ever been told?

“Of course,” says Archer, moving forward, pausing only to glance with obvious distaste towards Havoc and Breda’s wrapper-strewn, ashtray-adorned desk.

From across the room, Maes is giving him a sympathetic look. Even Riza stops on her way to stick more photographs on the whiteboard to hand him a cup of coffee, which means, _stay strong, Sir, and if he makes one wrong move I’ll shoot him in the foot and say it was an accident._

Watching Havoc and Breda throwing pen lids at the waste bin, Roy thinks that maybe it won’t be so difficult to work with Archer, so long as he has his team to back him up. After all, they don’t look like much when screwing around in the office (all of them except Hawkeye, who looks poised and dangerous wherever she is) but once they’re out on the field, they’re unstoppable. There’s a reason Roy’s the youngest and best detective on the force, and it’s not just his own personal expertise.

 

***

Al’s at college, Snooky the cat is asleep, and Winry’s in New York, most probably packing her bags for the train journey. Everyone is busy, except for Ed, who is lying on the couch with his face stuffed in the familiar hollow created through weeks of practise throwing himself onto the cushy seat to lie in the most comfortable face down position manageable.

His automail isn’t _that bad_ , his arm feels better than it did, and his ribs, while looking like the result of eighteen dogs walking through blue paint and then tracking the mess over Ed’s torso, don’t hurt as sharply as they did yesterday.

He needs to _do_ something. He needs to go to work, definitely, and he should drop in at the lab and work on making his minor breakthroughs _big_.

He should go and ask around at bars and other disreputable places for a certain person with green dreadlocks.

Ed yanks on his boots and pulls a black hoodie out from under the couch. It’s only a little bit covered with cat hair; it’ll be fine. Then he’s sliding the deadbolt across the door and leaving through the fire escape, because it’s more fun and also helps stop anyone watching the apartment from knowing that he’s left. Can’t be too careful, especially in an area like this. As he slides down the rail, he reaches down to check that his knife is back, safe and snug inside his boot. Just in case.

 

The streets are shining with last night’s rain, but the sun is shyly peeking out from behind the heavy blanket of cloud, so Ed takes it as a good sign. He walks first to the bar, hidden away in the corner of what could be called the high street like a bad tooth. He pushes open the door, strides in and slides onto a barstool ( _not_ having to perform a small jump in order to get himself the right height to sit down comfortably, _thank you very fucking much_ ) and glances around quickly. All the usual crowd are here: the shady man with the leather jacket who reminds Ed of Aragorn in _Fellowship of the Ring_ , the two women with matching skull-and-crossbones tattoos and the guy who sits at the furthest table from the door and only seems to drink single-malt whiskey. The bartender, a guy Ed recognises from one of Russell’s many get-high gatherings around the back of the coffee shop, is slowly wiping down the bar. He looks up at Ed when he sits down, but his eyes soon glaze over in boredom again, and he resumes his mechanical cleaning.

It’s quieter than usual, but Ed reckons that’s down to it still being daytime. Come eight p.m., crowds of unsavoury personalities will come rushing in, dealing illicit substances under tables and talking in menacing voices. It’s pretty much the best place to get information, if you know how.

But the crowds haven’t yet come, and it’s still early-ish. So Ed leaves through the back door, hissing out a breath through his teeth as he decides there’s nowhere else for him to go at this time. It’s always been inevitable: he usually ends up there sooner or later when he’s looking for information. That’s not to say he wouldn’t rather avoid it, though.

He turns out onto the street, flipping his hood up as he walks, the hard edge of his knife against his shin a comfort in this fucked up world.

As much as he hates the place, he’s going to have to go to Underworld.

 

***

Archer’s eyebrow rises slowly, and Roy manages to stop himself from setting the offending feature on fire. He wonders if it’s scientifically plausible to be able to trigger another person’s spontaneous combustion through _deep loathing_. Probably not, but then there isn’t much known about strength of will; if he concentrates hard enough, maybe-

“The Scarred Killer’s case has become something of a cold case,” says Archer coolly, “I’m afraid the perpetrator simply…stopped. I expect he decided he’d gotten in too deep and is laying low for a cpouple of years.”

This time, it’s Roy’s turn to raise his eyebrow. “It’s been three hears, as you know,” he says smoothly, “and you can’t deny the connection between this case and his own.”

“On the contrary, Detective Mustang,” replies Archer, matching Roy’s tone, “it seems to me as though you’re merely speculating. There’s no evidence that the cases are linked, after all.”

Inside his head, Roy is picking up his chair, swinging it with all his strength at Archer’s smug head, and calmly dusting himself off afterwards. Dear god, is this how people feel when he pulls the Smug, Arrogant Bastard card on them? If so, then kudos to him, because it’s really quite effective.

“Even so,” says Roy, standing up and straightening his jacket carelessly, “I’ll have some people look into it. You can never be too thorough after all, especially when civilian’s lives are at stake.” He flashes Archer a smile. “I would have thought you’d know that, Detective Archer,” he murmurs, and sweeps away before the man can reply, with as much dramatic egotism as he can muster. From the way Maes rolls his eyes at him from the other side of the room, Roy guesses that he’d used just the right amount of childish theatricality that Archer would underestimate him- and in consequence, allow Roy to do whatever he wanted with the investigation. He’d shake his head and smile patronisingly and say, “go ahead Mustang,” believing himself to be in charge, when really, Roy's underneath it all, playing him with a skilfulness that he prides himself on.

The whole operation went rather well, Roy thinks.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N- Hi everyone! It's going to be a hectic couple of days, but I'll try to keep posting as much as I can :) To all the people sending me lovely messages about the family emergency thing: massive thank you! Everything is fine now, or at least it will be soon ^^; In other news: MORE PLOT HOORAY <3

The Scarred Killer, the homunculi, and Edward Elric. Roy’s used to relying on his instincts to point him in which direction to dig when he’s working on a particularly difficult case, but this…they were all connected somehow, all wrapped up in each other. He just couldn’t find the missing pieces.

Damn. He glances at his watch: five to one. Lunch time. He _should_ eat something, but he’s still looking through the Scarred Killer’s file, noting down every similarity he can find with the Homunculi’s apparent motives. The Scarred Killer could be some kind of mercenary, hired by the Homunculi group to carry out attacks on individuals. Every person murdered by the Scarred Killer had been in some way connected with ground-breaking scientific research- Amestris Labs in particular had had ten of its most prominent scientists killed in the space of two years.

And the Homunculi had claimed responsibility for the destruction of three laboratories; one had been blown up only six months after Scar’s last murder. If they worked from the assumption that the group and the Scarred Killer were connected, and furthermore that the Killer was in fact working for the group in their early days…finding Scar would be one way of leading them straight to the Homunculi.

Roy taps his pencil against his bottom lip, frowning so intently at his laptop screen that he doesn’t even notice Maes sidle up to his desk until the man waves his hand in front of the screen.

“Roy. Eat something. It’s half one.”

Roy blinks at him, shakes his head to clear it, and, disregarding Maes’ words, asks, “Are we allowed to see Archer’s case files following on from the Scarred Killer investigation?”

Maes furrows his brow at him. “We’d need his permission,” he says, “Why? Have you found something?”

“Possibly. This report ends here, and there’s nothing else on the system. But this is just a summary of the entire investigation- which shouldn’t be done until the investigation is finished, which it’s _not_. So we need to know if they actually carried on, and if so, what they found- or if they just gave up. And if they just gave up, then we need to know why they stopped. There’s a chance there’s something bigger going on here and- why are you looking at me like that?”

Maes sighs deeply through his nose, and doesn’t stop staring. Then, he nods, once, and pats Roy’s shoulder. “Good to see you’re focused again. Although you should stop and eat something. Get a sandwich from the vending machine! And don’t work too hard. Must keep up appearances, after all,” He winks, and disappears.

Roy spins his pen a few times, pulls a sheet of paper out of his drawer, and starts writing. If they can get hold of additional files on the Scarred Killer’s case, then that could be helpful in tracking him down. Somehow, something isn’t adding up here. Why would they just stop in the middle of an investigation? Roy knows Archer- he’s cruel, obsessed with power, and works like a robot. The only reason he would abandon a case would be if he was given a direct order to do so- otherwise he would keep working until it was solved, in order to get more brownie points from the high ups.

So why would their superiors give the order to abandon ship? Especially in such an important case- serial killers weren’t something the police or government just liked to leave alone.

What was going on?

***

The Underworld Nightclub is permanently dark, permanently smoky, and permanently inhabited by at least thirty writhing teens intent on either getting high or getting sex. To understate matters, it’s not Ed’s number one choice of places to be spending his day. But this is where the good information brokers hang out. This is where Ed’s main contacts are. This place, though a complete fuckin’ shambles, holds a spot in Ed’s heart as the place he first came when he started this whole crime gig- an angry, confused, nervous (okay, fine, he was fucking terrified, but he hid it well) teenager with training in more than one martial art, stepping through the door and fighting the overwhelming instinct to run the hell away.

He’d learnt a lot that day by just hanging out at the fringes of the dancing (could you still call it dancing if people were literally breaking into fights in the middle of it?) mass and _watching_. And since then, he comes back, oh, three times a month? Less, if he was lucky.

He’s built up a fairly reliable web of contacts by now, and as well as keeping him up to date on the workings of the underworld- the actual, literal, drug-lords-and-mafia underworld- they help him carry out his own…work. Small-time crime. Conning wealthy politicians out of their ill-earned gains. Breaking and entering. Occasionally stealing random hot guys’ wallets at seedy bars. That sort of thing.

Now, he moves through the crowd like a natural, blending in with his nondescript black-hoodie-black-jeans-black-boots ensemble. With his hood up, hopefully no one will call him out by spotting his hair in the midst of the flailing. He doesn’t need small-time drug dealers trying to set up shop with him. It’s enough that he steals people’s money- he isn’t fucking going anywhere _near_ the opium dens and cocaine nests. In fact, he kind of wishes he’d chosen a more valiant path and made himself a fucking superhero or some shit, so he could have a hand in _wiping out_ this shithole.

 _Needs must where the devil drives_. Maybe. Or maybe he’s just made one too many bad decisions, and he deserves the situation he’s gotten himself into.

Greed is standing smoking by the heavy fire escape doors when Ed catches sight of him. His trademark sleeveless jacket lined with fake fur gives him away, even with his back to the crowd. Ed smirks as he makes his way towards him.

“When are you gonna ditch that thing and get yourself a new coat?” he asks as he reaches Greed’s shoulder. The other man turns at the sound of his voice, blowing smoke in Ed’s direction.

“The price of fashion, my unfortunate friend,” he drawls, and stubs his cigarette out on the bottom of his shoe. “Edward Elric. Been a while, huh?”

“Sure has,” says Ed, “can you guess why I’m, here?”

“Hmm,” says Greed, pushes his finger to his chin in a mock thinker pose. “You want the number for my stylist?”

Ed’s grin is more teeth than smile. “Nah,” he says, “I’d rather you kept that to yourself. I’m here for some information.”

Greed returns his wolfish grin with one of his own, locking eyes with Ed. “Well, then,” he says softly, “we better go somewhere quiet, don’t you think?”

He motions to the shadows and his two companions, Martel the contortionist and Dolcetto, famous for his pointed teeth, move forward to open the doors. The fire alarm has long since been disabled; as Ed follows Greed out into the backstreet, Martel snaps her gum at him and Dolcetto cracks his knuckles. They slam the doors closed behind him, and Ed fights down a laugh. Greed is here for the show, and he’s the biggest exhibitionist Ed’s ever met- take his _name_ for example. _Greed_. It’s like he used a villain name generator to choose the alias.

“So what’ll it be this time?” asks Greed, leaning against the wall. Ed mirrors the pose on the other side of the alley. It occurs to him that he’s been spending _way_ too much time in alleyways recently. “Movements of the drug lords? Insider info on Kimbley’s new whorehouse chain?” He wiggles his eyebrows at Ed, and Ed shakes his head slowly, stomach clenching. Greed’s the most tolerable out of all the scumbag dealers and brokers in there- but that doesn’t mean he’s _good_. Sometimes Ed forgets that.

“Not quite,” he says, “you ever heard of a guy with green dreadlocks? Professional standard martial arts-,” Greed moves like fucking lightning; Ed manages to turn to the side enough to protect his ribs before Greed has him by the front of his hoodie and shoved up against the wall.

“ _Leave_ ,” he hisses, all trace of amusment gone from his eyes. “ _Now_.” The bricks dig into Ed's back for the second time that week, and Ed fixes Greed with his most venomous glare. He lets go.

Backing up a few paces, Greed glances around quickly and straightens the lapels of his jacket. Ed narrows his eyes. “What’s gotten you so scared?” he asks. Greed’s face twists in fury.

“Just get the fuck outta here, Elric,” he says, “and don’t come back. I’m saving your hide, here. I if I were in _your_ situation, wouldn’t think about testing my patience.”

But Ed’s not giving up _that_ easily. Not when things have just started to get a whole lot more interesting.

“Sure,” he says, dusting himself off, “just tell me one thing, _Greed_.” He lunges forwards, seizing Greed’s collar with his automail hand and slamming him against the wall: a return gesture. “Who’s the guy with the dreadlocks?”

There's a moment when Greed's mouth opens like he's about to tell Ed something. Then it passes, and with a violent curse, Greed shakes him off and slugs him across the jaw with his fake metal fist. It hurts, but Ed can tell he’s pulling his punches. “Leave,” Greed hisses, and he’s scared now, really scared. Ed’s never seen him this tense before. Greed raps on the fire doors with his other arm, signalling Martel and Dolcetto to open it.

It’s effectively a dismissive gesture, but Ed isn’t ready to go just yet. “Anything,” he says, “Any piece of info- I can pay. _Tell me_.”

The fire escape doors rattle like someone's been thrown against it from the inside, and Greed jerks his head towards them. “Fuck,” he says, breathing fast, “ _fuck_. Martel! Dolcetto! The fuck is goin’ on in there?”

Ed clenches his fists. What the fuck _is_ going on here? As Greed raises his fist to attempt to break down the door, Ed grabs his arm with his automail hand, holding him fast. “ _Please_.” The word comes out through gritted teeth. The air is tightening like a string about to snap- the hairs on the back of Ed’s neck stands up. He feels like something is about to happen.

Greed turns to face him, and his eyes glitter with fear. “ _Homunculi_ ,” he whispers, and that’s when the blood explodes out of his chest and the gunshot cracks the air.

 

Stumbling backwards from the spray of dark blood, Ed looks wildly around for cover. Fuck. _Fuck_ \- that was- _fuck_. Footsteps, behind him. He spins, whips the knife from his boot. There.

Dreadlocks saunters towards him from the other end of the alley, gun swinging from one hand. They meet Ed’s eyes and smile.

“You're becoming an annoying piece of shit, pipsqueak,” they say, musingly, and Ed sees red.

“Yeah?” he snarls, “I can be more than that, dickhead.”

And- fuck, how could he fall for such an amateur distraction?- there’s a blow to the back of his head and he’s stumbling, his already tender skull suddenly ringing with pain. Half-blinded he swings wildly in the direction of the blow; there are quick running steps and Dreadlocks has him in an arm lock. Ed snarls and kicks out, feeling his boot connect with Dreadlocks’ knee. They shout in pain and draw their arm back to hit Ed again; he rolls and lashes out with a leg, sweeping Dreadlock’s feet out from under them and standing up warily.

A woman in a long black dress is standing a metre away, twirling a gun in her hand. Did she fucking hit him in the head with a _gun_? She points the weapon at him, expression bored, and says, “Envy, just knock him out already.”

Ed narrows his eyes and looks down- but Dreadlocks isn’t lying sprawled on the ground anymore.

“You have no sense of fun, Lust,” says a voice from beside him, and Ed feels something jab into the side of his neck before he can react. “I wanted to play with him a while longer.”

Ed fucking hates needles and- black clouds are drifting over his vision; what the fuck did they _inject_ him with? He sways, collapses, and his head smacks into the concrete, sending stars bursting in front of his eyes. Fucking hell- his head is _never_ going to recover from this.

The last thing he registers is sharp fingernails trailing down the side of his face and the woman’s voice saying, low and silky in his ear, “There’ll be plenty of time for that _later_. Let’s go.”

Then the black spots overcrowd his vision, and the dark rolls in.

 

***

Roy is running out of paper; he needs another sheet but the theories are overflowing out of hus brain and he doesn’t want to stop scribbling long enough to get some more…

Hughes is tapping him on the shoulder. “ _What?”_ he snaps, giving in and pulling a fresh piece of paper out of his drawer, “have we got permission to see Archer’s files yet or-?”

“It’s not about that.” The seriousness of Hughes’ voice as he interrupts makes Roy pause in his writing. He looks up, and the other man is holding out a telephone to him. “You have a call from an Alphonse Elric? He says someone’s in danger.”

Alphonse Elric. Danger. _Ed_.

Roy seizes the phone, and turns to face the other direction. “Roy Mustang speaking.”

“ _Ed’s been kidnapped_.”

 

 _…I hope you realise what you’ve gotten yourself into_ …

“- _moving too quickly to be by foot, and when I called him he didn’t answer-,”_

“Slow down, Alphonse,” says Roy, beckoning to Riza as Al recites the story in urgent tones, “we’ll find him. Did you say you have his location?”

“ _Yes. I put trackers in his boots after the incident with the ‘guy with the Dreadlocks’,”_ says Al, and doesn’t give Roy time to question him. “ _The signal cut off two minutes ago- but it last transmitted from the abandoned warehouse on Forty-Second Street._ ”

Roy writes down the address on a fresh sheet, hands it to Riza. “A civilian has been kidnapped,” he tells her. “We don’t have time to send this through the proper channels- take Havoc and Breda and go to the address. _Be careful_.” She nods, serious and professional, and turns to Havoc and Breda. They’re already ready to go, shrugging on their jackets and checking their sidearms. Roy feels something tighten in his chest. _Ed_.

The three leave, each connected via radio with Feury, promising to relay back any information they find.

“It’s probable they’ve already moved on,” Roy tells Al, “but I’ve sent a team to the address. Hopefully they’ll find something which will point us in the right direction to who did this, and where they are.”

“ _I think I already know who did it_ ,” replies Al, voice taut with worry, and Roy presses the phone tighter against his ear.

“What?”

“ _Before he started moving, Ed stopped at the Underworld Nightclub for just over half an hour. I just searched it on the internet- and it's the subject of a breaking news story. Twenty people are dead and five more seriously injured. A group of people entered the club and opened fire. They left a message on the wall: “we are the homunculi”, apparently written in blood.”_

Roy has forgotten how to breathe. Just as he opens his mouth to say something, anything, Hughes bursts in through the door and strides straight to Roy’s desk. Roy hadn’t even noticed him leave.

“Gun crime at a nightclub off West Road,” Hughes tells him, pale faced. “Twenty killed and-,”

“Five injured,” finishes Roy. “Homunculi.”

Hughes glances at the phone in his hand. “Yes. How did you-?”

“Alphonse Elric will be coming down to the station,” Roy says, loud enough that Al can hear him on the other end of the line. “This has gone far enough.”

“ _I’ll be there in five minutes_.”

Al hangs up, and Roy turns to Hughes. The other man, still breathing heavily, gives him an appraising look, and nods.

“We’re going to get them this time,” he says quietly, laying a hand on Roy’s shoulder. Roy stands, nodding.

“I know.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N- so it may seem like I'm just completely improvising this shit, but- actually, wait, fuck. I _am_ improvising this, and it is indeed shit. Well. *whistles*  
>  I know, I know. It sucks. But I am just winging this, and it's just for fun and hopefully you guys will stick with it until the end? maybe? (I don't even know how this is going to end. I'm just letting the characters do whatever they want) (oh well)
> 
> Okay, let's get on with the chapter. WARNING! this is indeed the _torture_ part. Like everything else so far, it's not hardcore, but again, if that's not your cup of tea then please do skip out on this one ^u^ Uh, what else. I don't know. I really _hate_ this chapter, like _really hate_. But hopefully you will not hate it! 
> 
> I have talked for way too long. goodbye friends, enjoy your read <3

When Ed opens his eyes, he has to close them again almost immediately, because the light is fucking _blinding_. Squinting through his lashes, it comes to his attention that someone has stuck duct tape over his mouth. Fucking _hell_. He’s sitting on an uncomfortable metal chair; his legs feel like they’ve been duct taped to it, and his wrists are similarly bound to the arms of the chair.

This is starting to feel like some kind of bad porno horror movie.

Blinking against the light, his eyes start to adjust and he can open them fully. He’s in a- warehouse? A fucking warehouse, with crates stacked against one wall, a small window high on the wall in front of him and if there’s a door, it’s behind him. Fucking great. Ed’s never been kidnapped before, so at least this’ll be a new fuckin’ experience, right? He tests out the tape around his wrists by attempting to wriggle his arms free. It must be pretty good tape, because his arms stay right the fuck where they are. His only consolation is that the chair isn’t bolted to the floor or some shit, so he could probably hop his way out if he really wanted to.

The stupidity of the image- him hopping down the highway duct taped to a chair- and the surrealism of the fucking situation make him want to burst out laughing. But he can’t, because someone has fucking _duct taped his mouth shut_.

There are lockpicks in the lining of his jeans, but his knife’s gone. He doesn’t know where- he might have dropped it when he got fucking smacked in the back of the head with a gun, or they might have taken it off of him when they- whoever ‘they’ are- fucking kidnapped him and duct taped him to a chair.

This kind of thing _always_ fucking happens. Ed tried to crane his neck to see the door; he manages a glimpse of the top of the frame before it swings open and he puts his head back down, trying his best to act cool, calm and collected.

There are footsteps behind him; he doesn’t turn to look, just kind of slumps down in the chair as best he can, and fixing a bored expression on his face.

Dreadlocks- or _Envy_ \- comes round in front of him and grins.

“well, well, well,” they say, “Look what we have here.”

Ed raises an eyebrow at him. His ‘what do you fucking think you have here’ comes out more than slightly muffled, but Envy seems to get the gist of it, because their brows draw together in fury and suddenly their face is right up close to Ed and they’re hissing, “you wanna keep your manners _nice_ and _polite_ if you ever wanna get out of this fucking thing, _pipsqueak_.”

“Envy.” It’s the woman again- Lust? Her shoes make a clicking sound as she walks towards Ed; it’s fucking _irritating_ that he can’t turn and look at her but Envy is crouching in front of him, grinning again, and Ed’s sure as hell not gonna be the first to look away. “Stop playing around.”

Envy rolls their eyes and looks disdainfully up at her. “Whatever,” they say, “do whatever you fucking want, just let me have what’s left of him when you’re done.”

“Of course,” says Lust quietly, and Envy smiles, shark-like, at Ed before leaping up and walking away.

Lust snaps her fingers and a short, fat man appears out of the shadows- fucking _hell_ , Ed hadn’t even noticed him- and drags a crate over for her. She perches delicately on it, and slowly peels off one black glove to inspect her nails.

“Edward Elric,” she says softly, and Ed raises both eyebrows this time. He _wants_ to say ‘Yeah what the fuck do you want, you old hag?’ but this duct tape is really impeding his sharp and witty comebacks.

She looks up at him like she’s read his thoughts, and leans forward so that her cleavage is dangerously exposed. Ed wrinkles his nose.

“Sorry about that,” she said, “Envy likes to be thorough.” With a movement like a viper strike, she reaches forwards and rips off the duct tape covering Ed’s mouth.

“Fucking _ow_ , you bitch!” he shouts as soon as the offending tape is gone, “do you fucking _mind_?”

“Not particularly.” Lust runs he eyes up and down his body, and Ed half wants to squirm and half wants to fucking bash her skull in with the chair. More than half, actually- and then he’ll hit _her_ with the fucking gun in payback, too.

She smiles again like she can read his thoughts, and, crossing her legs and lowering her voice as if they’ve having some kind of special conversation, “So, Edward, tell me- what made you dig further into our little group?”

Group?

Oh, okay, shit. She thinks he knows something he doesn’t. And now Ed wants to know what it is he’s supposed to know.

“It was mostly your little flying monkey back there,” he says casually, leaning back in the chair like he’s relaxed or something. “Envy- yeah, the awful dreadlocks offended me, so I-,”

The slash comes so fast he doesn’t even see it, and suddenly there’s warm blood trickling down his face and Lust is folding the knife back into her glove, looking up at him through her lashes. Ed raises his chin a little.

So it’s going to be like this, then.

“Like I was saying,” he continues, the fuckin’ _epitome_ of casual, “that dye job just wasn’t working, you know? I felt like I should do something to _help_ the poor guy, so I went to Greed to get the number for his stylist. Really commendable, that one. But then you just appeared and, like, _shot_ him, so I guess Envy doesn’t want my help. Shame.”

He finishes, and gives her his best Cocky Bastard grin, locking eyes with her. She smoothes the front of her dress down, and stands up. She walks slowly around the back of his chair, trailing her gloves fingers across the metal frame.

“Interesting,” she says, low and husky, “so you either don’t know anything at all, or you’re trying to play me. By the way,” she breathes, swooping down like an eagle or some shit, her mouth almost touching his ear, “I don’t appreciate being played. So if you could just _tell the truth_ …that would be very helpful.”

She flicks her wrist and a knife slides out of the tip of her glove. Crouching down until she’s at Ed’s eye level, she holds up the blade. The edge is very thin, and very sharp. It doesn’t waver as she brings it a millimetre away from Ed’s eyeball. His lashes almost brush it when he blinks.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t flinch or look away. Just stares, past the knife, into her violet eyes. A challenge. His heartbeat is very loud in his ears, and he seriously hopes she can’t hear it.

(If she fucking cuts his _eye_ he’s going to fucking kill her)

A small smile curls the edge of her mouth. With another flick of her wrist, the blade retracts, and she uses her hand instead to caress the side of face, like a lover. Ed fights the urge to pull away.

“Edward Elric,” she says softly, fingers brushing over the cheekbone she cut, his blood staining her glove. “You have a brother.” Her fingertips move slowly down toward his jaw line. “ _Alphonse_.”

And that’s it. “If you touch Al,” breathes Ed, and her eyes glitter at achieving a response from him, “I’ll fucking kill you.”

Her hands move to cup his face, thumbs pressing lightly against his mouth. “I doubt you’ll be able to.” She replies, and Ed makes another decision that is probably not one of his best.

She’s fast- but not faster than Ed, not at this distance. He wrenches his head around and bites down _hard_ on her hand, drawing blood. Or, wait, that might be his own. _Gross_. She grits her teeth, cry coming out clenched between her teeth and as Ed’s jaw starts to ache she reaches down with her other hand, curling her grip around his left index finger.

And bends it all the way back.

 _Snap_.

Ed gasps in pain and she wrenches her hand free, hissing like an angry snake. “Congratulations, boy,” she snarls, all trace of smirking gone, “you just lost your ticket out of here. I don’t care what you know- I’m going to make you _suffer_ for that.

Ed spits blood onto the floor at her feet. “Yeah, yeah,” he says, “that’s what they all say.”

And she sweeps out of the room, shutting the door and plunging the room into darkness. Oh. Light isn’t even coming through the window, what-?

A figure moves out of the way of the window, and light, meagre but still there, streams in. It illuminates the short, fat man, who is somehow fucking <em>clinging to the wall</em> ten feet above Ed, grinning down at him wide-mouthed and… _hungrily._

Oh, fuck.

 

***

“Where’s Archer?” asks Roy, tapping his fingers on Feury’s desk. When will Jean and Riza report in?

Maes shrugs. “He left this morning, saying he had to go and pick something up from his old office.”

“It’s only down one floor,” says Roy, narrowing his eyes. “Go and check.”

“Me?”

Roy raises an eyebrow at his friend. “Yes, you. You’re not busy are you?”

Maes hesitates. “…I kind of wanted to meet this Alphonse Elric, actually. I’ve heard a lot about him and his brother, so…”

“Wait, what? You’ve heard of them?” Roy leaning forwards, his whole attention focused on Maes, who nods slowly.

“You mean you haven’t?”

“Why, have they been in the news?”

Maes laughs quietly. “I’d say that, yes. They’re both geniuses- Edward’s the older brother by, what, a year? He was recently commended for some ground-breaking theory on cancer cells or something. And Alphonse is set to become the youngest person in a decade to get his PhD.”

How had he not known that? _How_? “How did you find that out?” demands Roy, and Maes shifts a little uncomfortably.

“Well, I mean, it wasn’t easy. They’ve both been keeping a very low profile for the past three years. I only really know about it because Gracia says Alphonse is working part time at the children’s hospital, and she’s had to take Elysia in a few times. She mentioned to me that he was awfully young, and awfully nice when she was waiting to see Elysia- got her coffee, told her what the doctors would be checking for and everything…”

Roy clears his throat. “Alright, yes, that’s wonderful, Maes- but, really? You just…dug through the records to stalk someone you’ve never even met before?” This is ridiculous; all this time and he's found what, exactly? Absolutely <em>nothing</em>-

Maes folds his arms. “It’s my _job_ to find things out, Roy. It wasn’t difficult for _me_ \- I’m just saying, someone like you probably would have found it fairly hard to dig up all the news stories that I did.”

“And now you want to _meet him?_ I never took you for a science enthusiast.”

Maes sighs. “Look, Roy, the reason Gracia has to take Elysia to hospital is because two weeks ago she almost _drowned_ in a _pond_. I wanted to thank Alphonse. He was passing by, and stopped to help her. He may have even saved her _life_. So yes, I want to meet him. I would like to thank him personally.”

Roy stares. Even Feury is looking up tentatively. “…and you…didn’t tell me?”

Maes takes off his glasses to scrub at his eyes. “No, I didn’t tell you. Because you were being all…stressed out and sad. I thought you had enough on your plate without any of my ‘family bullshit’.”

Roy swallows. “For the record,” he says quietly, “I don’t think it’s bullshit. It’s just a little annoying to have pictures shoved in front of your face while working. I’m sorry.”

And Maes, more than anyone, knows that it takes _a lot_ to get an apology out of Roy. Not just an apology- a proper, sincere _I’m sorry_. He smiles.

“Well, that’s alright,” he says brightly, “So long as you don’t object to my staying in here until the young man arrives.”

Roy shakes his head. Has he really been so detatched? So closed-up that he couldn’t even be trusted with his best friend’s daughter nearly _dying_? “Fine, you can stay. Just- someone needs to go and see where the hell Archer is, at some point. Clear?”

“As crystal. So, have Riza and Havoc reported back yet?”

Feury shakes his head. “Not yet,” he says, “There was some static, though, which could be…well.”

“Well, what?” Demands Roy.

Feury hesitates. “It…could mean they’ve been disconnected. Or it could just be background noise, or it could just be the signal acting up. If it's a warehouse, then the building is most likely messing up the signal. I’m sure it’s nothing, sir-,”

There’s a crackle of static from Feury’s radio, and everyone swings round to stare at the source of the noise.

“Hawkeye, Havoc,” barks Roy, “report.”

There is a few seconds silence, then another burst of static that makes everyone jump. Roy’s hands tighten on the edge of the desk. What’s going on? First Ed’s _kidnapped_ by _terrorists,_ and now what? Aliens?

“Sir! Agents Hawkeye and Havoc reporting in!” Riza’s voice is faint and sturng through with pops and crackles, but Roy can hear her, and that's enough.

“Go ahead,” he says tersely.

“The warehouse is empty, sir. But we found evidence of a struggle- and some blood on the floor.” Roy is gripping the desk so tightly his knuckles are white. Blood. Ed’s?

Riza continues, “There was only a small amount- not enough for a fatal wound, but that’s my unprofessional judgment, sir. I recommend we call in for backup and pass this through the proper channels now; forensics will be able to tell us more.”

Roy’s breath is little more than a whisper. “Very well,” he says, “return to headquarters. I’ll alert my superiors to the situation.”

“Yes, sir.”

The line cuts off, and Roy doesn’t move for a few seconds. Beside him, Maes shifts, and the door swings open.

“Detective Mustang,” says a familiar voice, and Roy looks up to see a young man with a head of wheat blond hair standing in the doorway. Alphonse Elric.

***

Al chews thoughtfully on a biro, looking over the whiteboard they set up to deal with the Homunculi case while Roy leaves to tell the higher-ups about the security risk- and to suffer the consequences for acting on his own. He knows Maes must have an inkling of what is- what _was-_ going on between him and Ed; the man is far too intelligent not to. He knows that he acted rashly, unprofessionally, and could very well have put his team in danger.

But somehow, he doesn’t care. He’s too flled with adrenaline, with that knife-edge sensation of danger. Besides, even Roy himself doesn’t know what the hell is wrong with him; doesn’t know _why_ he’s acting the way he is. It’s not like it matters. He can only hope that they find Ed before it’s too late.

Bradley’s office is on the floor obove Roy’s. The door is embossed with his name in gold. But apart from that, it’s just an ordinary door. Even so, as Roy raises his hand to knock, he feels… _intimidated_. And for Roy Mustang, that's never, ever a good sign.

“Enter!”

Well. Don’t screw it up, Mustang. Game face.

***

By the time roy gets back to his office, Al and ames appear to be the best of friends. They’re scanning over the various reports and photographs on the whiteboard, Al maing suggestions while Maes agrees and jots things down on a notepad.

Roy’s always envied his friend’s likeableness. Maes looks up expectantly when he enters.

“So?” he asks, “How’d it go? Do we have back up?”

Roy sighs. “Not…exactly,” he says. Maes shakes his head like he's trying to get water out of his ears.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Al is watching Roy with a critical look on his face. It feels like he’s being pierced by dual lasers.

“It means we’ve been given full responsibility for the investigation,” he says, slinging his coat over his shoulders, “and that we’ve wasted enough time as it is. Maes, _find Archer_.” Maes nods and disappears from the room. Roy turns to the three left in the office. Breda, Feury and Al look back at him, expressions varying from serious to determined. “I called Havoc on my way down- they’ll meet myself and Alphonse at the warehouse. Feury, stay here and hold down the fort. Breda, find the forensics girl…Sheska. Send her over to the warehouse as soon as possible. Go.”

Breda salutes jauntily and follows Hughes out the door, and Feury pulls a fresh sheet of paper towards him.

“I’ll take notes on everything you report, sir,” he says, “so try and tell me as much as possible so I can add it to the case files.”

“Very well,” says Roy, and claps him briefly on the shoulder before turning to Alphonse. “We should- is that a _knife_?”

Al looks up from tucking the weapon into his boot and raises an eyebrow. “I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he replies, and walks past Roy to the door. “I know a shortcut. You drive; I’ll direct you.”

Roy…doesn’t appear to have any choice but to follow the younger Elric out of his office and down the hall. Alphonse walks like he lives here- or has at least memorised the schematics of the building. He doesn’t stop to look at signs or ask for directions, and instead leads Roy out of the back door and into the private car park without a single wrong turn, which is quite a feat considering that even Roy sometimes gets lost in the winding maze of corridors.

Just who _are_ these brothers? Roy wonders as he gets into his car. Al buckles his seatbelt and gives Roy a look like _are you going to start driving or…?_

He starts the car. “So, a shortcut,” he says, “which way?”

“Left on main street,” says Al, then take a right at the small roundabout. There’s a small path, kind of narrow but not too bad. It takes you round the back of the warehouse district, behind the loading docks at the boatyard. It cuts a good mile or so off the journey.”

Roy nods, and accelerates out of the parking lot. This is surreal, this is strange, this is ridiculous. But if it takes them one step closer to finding Ed- to finding the terrorists and taking down their organisation while hopefully earning Roy a promotion while he’s at it- then he doesn’t care.

Funny, how many things he just _doesn’t care_ about at the moment. And speaking of not caring, Bradley hadn’t even seemed fazed at his irresponsible actions; he’d just nodded and smiled and said, “well, I’ll give you full responsibility, then. Use as many men as you like, Detective.”

There had always been something that seemed _off_ about the higher tier of command; in particular their close, _close_ ties with the military- which was strange because the nearest military base was two states over. Now, though…now, Roy was sure. This whole case; terrorists and serial killers and Archer having practically no involvement with a case he was supposed to be assigned to…Bradley and the military and who gives a _terrorism_ case to the shittiest police department in the shittiest city?

One of the reasons Roy that is such a good detective is because he knows when to listen to his gut. And right now, his gut is telling him that there is much, much more to this than he’d originally thought.

Government conspiracies. Ulterior motives. And the warehouse, looming in front of them, just one in many rows of identical buildings.

Roy’s hands tighten momentarily on the steering wheel before he turns off the ignition, getting out of the car. On the other side, Alphonse does the same. The younger boy looks up at the building and worry, deep, gut wrenching _worry_ passes over his face. Whatever this- Ed- means to Roy, it must mean so much more to Al. According to Maes, they’re each other’s only family.

“We’ll find them,” he says, and Al glances at him.

“Yes,” he says, and determination hardens his features. “And then I’m going to kill him for worrying everyone like this.”

Ahead of them, Hawkeye and Havoc step out of the warehouse, beckoning them over. Roy walks towards them as fast as he can without looking unprofessional. The warehouse is tall, roofed with corrugated iron and painted a dark green colour than reminds Roy of boiled spinach. Al seems to agree; he looks up at the building with distaste. The door is just before them; a padlock swings dismally from the iron bolt.

“Show me,” Roy says, and Hawkeye nods.

“Right this way, sir.”

***

Inside, the warehouse is dim and gloomy. Hawkeye’s footsteps are quick and efficient as she shows Roy to the main room: a dark and musty storage centre with crates stacked at the walls. Al and havoc are close behind; cobwebs and damp are thick on the walls and Roy thinks bitterly that in the past day, this warehouse has seen more action than in all its years of service. The light pushes feebly against the grimy glass of the room’s only light source, a window high up on the opposite wall. A metal chair stands in the middle of the room. Around it, dark spots stain the dusty ground.

They walk towards it, Roy’s eyes picking out disturbances in the dust. He steps carefully around what could be footprints, and the four of them stop a few metres away from the chair. His eyes confirm what he already knew. The dark spots are red and glistening. Blood. It hasn’t dried yet; still fresh. Taking into account the damp, musty quality of the air, Roy guesses that it hasn’t been more than an hour since the stains were…made.

Beside him, Al stiffens. Roy turns to offer him some kind of comfort, but Al shakes his head sharply, eyes darting around the room.

Havoc looks down at him curiously, as though he’s just realised that he’s there, but Hawkeye suddenly straightens, mirroring Al’s alert pose.

Slowly, she draws her gun from its holster, and Al bends, sliding his knife from his boot.

“I don’t mean to scare you, detective,” he says pleasantly, “But we’re not alone.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A/N- I AM VERY SORRY FOR NOT POSTING FOR FOUR DAYS!! hopfully this will make up for it? It's longer than usual, I guess. also I promise I will be back n track with daily posting asap ^u^ This chapter is....aslasdsfkaldgjad;l. I apparently can't stop being a MASSIVE BITCH to Ed, whom I love dearly, though you wouldn't guess it from this chapter. lots of fights, lots of violence. not good. But the next chapter will be better! hopefully i'll get some nice royed fluff in there ^^; Anyway, please do enjoy! <3  
> p.s. i'll go back through and edit in the morning, but if anyone reads this before then, pls tell me about any horrible errors? it makes editing a hell of a lot easier ^^;

The back of the van is abso-fucking-lutely pitch black, or at least Ed figures it is. He can’t tell, because he’s been _blindfolded_. He is so looking forward to getting out of here and _ripping the limbs of every single member of this fucking group_.

Beside him, the fat guy shifts. “Lust,” he whines, “I’m hungry.” Ed’s stomach tightens with pity and revulsion. This guy- he’s blatantly not right in the head, but this group is dragging him around like an attack dog on a leash. But maybe he can use that. The duct tape is back over his mouth again, and his legs and arms are still bound together, but Ed jumpstarted a car when he was ten from instructions he found on the internet, so it can’t be too difficult to escape from a fucking van, right? The guy- Ed heard Lust call him Gluttony- is tapping on the floor of the van, next to Ed’s head. Slowly, he sits up, which is more difficult than he expected, being in a moving vehicle and all. He still isn’t sure why they haven’t just killed him yet, but still. Use every advantage you can get.

“sitting up?” Gluttony’s voice is _right_ next to his ear; Ed barely holds back the flinch. “No, no. Lie down.” The blow comes from behind, and- _shit_ , he’s been smacked to floor with ease. _Ow_.

His cursing is muffled behind the duct tape over his mouth, but Gluttony seems to get the gist of it, because he giggles. _What part of this is funny, you bastard?_

Still, Ed decides this is kind of better anyway. He’s rolled slightly, so he _should_ be facing away from Gluttony. He lifts his arms slowly up towards his head, fingers brushing the edge of the blindfold. So far, so good. Maybe the van really is dark, and Gluttony just won’t notice-

Hands reach down and grab him, tossing him bodily into the wall. From the front of the van, Envy shouts, “will you fucking keep it down?!” and through the stars exploding behind his eyes and the pain rocketing through his ribs, Ed figures that they must be on a main road. Lots of people around to wonder what all the noise is about.

He groans, slumping like a fucking ragdoll on the floor, but- hey. At least it gave him enough cover to pull the blindfold down. As Gluttony apologises, Ed squints through the shadows. It _is_ dark, but not as dark as he’d expected. The doors are, like, three centimetres away from his head, and, joy of joys, there’s a fucking inside handle. How stupid _are_ these guys? This is going to be _easy_.

Unless they’ve locked the doors, of course, which Ed discovers when he lunges for the handles, pulls, only to get _no fucking reaction_ from the doors and two meaty fists dragging him back again.

“ _No_ ,” growls Gluttony, and Ed tears the duct tape from his mouth so he can snarl, “No, _what_ , you bastard, I’ll _kill you_ -,”

Lust knocks on the partition between the back of the van and the front seats. “Gluttony, we don’t have time for this. Just knock him out again.” Her voice, though muffled by the glass, is bored. Ed’s eyes narrow. The van’s moving on rockier ground now; he stands up like a fucking mermaid with his legs bound together, and as Gluttony lurches for him he raises his arms above his head and brings them _down_ , separating his wrists and strike the heels of his bound palms against his chest.

The duct tape snaps, and Gluttony slams him into the wall.

 

Envy’s cry of indignation is audible over the sound of Ed’s head striking off the metal wall of the van, but funnily enough, Ed isn’t paying attention to that right now. He’s off balance and falling with his legs still bound he can’t fucking do much, but Gluttony’s hands are wrapped around his neck and isn’t it ironic that they’re the only things keeping him upright? He brings his elbow up, smashes into Gluttony’s face. He _wails_ , and Ed feels remorse grip him from the inside. But Gluttony’s grip tightens, and he can feel his fucking trachea being crushed, so he slams his fingers into the nerve clusters at Gluttony’s neck.

The grip slackens, Gluttony shrieks, Ed rips free and from the front Envy is swearing. The van swerves, and Ed stumbles into the doors. Fuck. He bends, tears at the duct tape around his legs, the ends peels back and he yanks. The brakes screech, Gluttony yells and Ed throws himself to the side.

The doors burst open, and Gluttony tumbles out onto the ground. The front doors open and Ed rips the last of the tape from around his legs. He has no knife, a broken finger and his fucking ribs are a fucking _joke_.

Ed jumps out of the van just as Envy comes round the side, dreadlocks askew and murder written on their face. A knife glints in their hands- not just any knife, _Ed’s_.

Fuck. He starts running.

***

The man is a hulking figure with long dark hair and sunken eyes. Hawkeye pushes roy out of the way and steps in front of him, levelling her gun.

“They left with the kid,” says the man, trudging towards them from behind the pile of crates he was hidden behind. “I think Gluttony tried to eat him.”

 _What the fuck is he going on about_?

“What is you name?” Asks Hawkeye, clear and expressionless. The man heaves a deep sigh and slowly turns his head to look at her.

“they call me Sloth,” he says, and moves so fast Roy can’t even react. Hawkeye fires twice before Sloth has slammed a fist into her side. The cry comes from between her gritted teeth, and Havoc swears in shock before firing his own weapon. Sloth roars in pain, clapping a huge palm over his arm to staunch the blood flow. Al moves forwards, and Roy sees that his eyes have gone icy cold. He pulls his phone from his pocket, dialling fast. Feury picks up after the first ring. Roy tells him to send back up and he complies, hanging up, and Roy turns back to see Al looks up at Sloth with the face of a hardened war veteran.

“Where are they?” he asks, and raises his knife so that the meagre light catches the edge. Sloth blinks at him.

“Why would I tell you?” he asks, seeming genuinely bewildered, and darts forward despite the multiple wounds in his limbs. Al dodges the first swing and slams his elbow into sloth’s gut, but the bigger man barely even notices. Hawkeye, leaning against Roy with her arm wrapped tight around her ribs, shoots again as Sloth drives his fist towards Al. The bullet hits him in the lower arm and he jerks, faltering, and Al shoots her a look of gratitude.

Havoc, too, raises his gun but the Al shouts, “stop!” He pauses, incredulous.

“Say _what_ , kid?” Havoc yells, as he ducks under another fist. Riza narrows her eyes.

“I can’t shoot without a risk of hitting Alphonse, sir,” she says, “have you called for backup?”

“Yes,” says Roy, “but they won’t be here for ten minutes- _Alphonse looks out_!”

Al looks up in time to see Sloth’s hand speeding towards him; Havoc fires quickly but his shots go wide and Al-

Al grabs Sloth’s wrist, twisting out the way and tugs him smoothly into an arm lock, bending the offending limb behind him as he stumbles and pressing a knee into his back.

“who the hell _is_ this kid?” breathes Havoc as Al cinches his hold on Sloth’s arm tighter, and Sloth groans.

 _My thoughts exactly_ , Roy wants to say.

 

“They took my brother,” says Al, “I don’t _care_ if you have to interrogate him. No offence, detective, but I’m not scared of the repercussions. _Make_ him talk.”

Roy takes in his face, young but so _old_ , and he remembers what Ed told him. ‘ _We had to do a lot of…bad stuff…’_ What kind of childhood had they _had?_ Their mother dying when they were _five_ , automail and comas and living on the streets. Al’s eyes are almost exactly the same shade as Ed’s- maybe a tiny bit darker. Roy sighs.

“Alphonse,” he says, “we _will_ find him. We’ll stop them. Right now, we can detain him, and imprison him, but we can’t _make_ him talk. I’m sorry, I really am. But there are other ways of going about this.”

Al stares at him for a moment as though he’s analysing him like a lab sample under a microscope, and his shoulders lower from their defensive position. “He’s the only family I have, detective,” he says quietly, after a while. “You’ll excuse me if I don’t find myself particularly comforted by your words.”

He turns and walks out of the warehouse, and Roy rubs his hand over his eyes. So much to do and he’s so _tired_ , so _confused_ , so _heavy_. He just wants to sleep and turn back time so he never volunteered for the fucking army, so he never became a fucking cop.

A yellow-jacketed police sergeant hurries up to him, carrying a clipboard.

“Detective Roy Mustang?” he asks, and Roy nods. “I’ve been asked to tell you that we have detained the suspect and are transporting him back to the station.”

“Very well,” says Roy, and straightens up, shrugging on the familiar Roy Mustang demeanour like a well-worn coat. “Use maximum security, and _don’t let him out of your site_. We will be questioning him upon our return.”

“Yes, sir.”

Inside, forensics are combing every inch on the place- but Roy and his team have fucked up the evidence pretty well from the fight. Another mistake. Another strike on his record.

He pulls his phone out again, goes to speed dial. Hughes picks up on the third ring.

“ _Roy_.”

“Maes. Have you found Archer?”

“A _bout that. Apparently he didn’t come into work this morning, but I just caught him on his way to a meeting in Bradley’s office. He says ‘congratulations on the new leads’ and that his full task force is at our disposal.”_

Roy frowns. That doesn’t sound like Archer at _all_. “That’s strange,” he says, “Did he seem any different?” And a meeting with Bradley? The head of the chain. The one with the most influence, with the most power to make a set up happen…

“ _He looked pale. There were circles under his eyes. He looked like_ you _the other day, actually.”_

“Very funny.” Pale and tired. Stressed out. Scheming not going as planned?

“ _Mm. Seems to me that there’s something fishy going on, Roy.”_ There’s a sharp buzz of static, and roy holds the phone closer to his ear.

“My thoughts exactly,” he replies. What is _wrong_ with this place? The rows and rows of metal warehouses fucking up the signal, the dank atmosphere that hangs over it.

“ _Which is why I’ve set a tail on him, and have also had someone bug his car.”_

That was fast. “Already?”

“ _Mhm._ ” Roy can _see_ Maes grinning that grin of his that made him half want to throttle the man and half want to hug him.

“Good work. No one else knows?”

“ _Of course not. What do you take me for, an amateur?”_

“I should hope not. Go find Feury- he’s got the updates on the situation here at the warehouse. We’ll be back soon.”

“ _Sure thing_.”

He hangs up, and Roy leaves the building. The dampness, the musty smell in the air, the cobwebs…it’s all too much like a bad horror flick, and Roy hates those. He has Riza supervising forensics, and Havoc has gone ahead, travelling with ‘Sloth’ in the police car. Roy raises his head to the sky. It’s basically night already, and the clouds hang heavy and dark. He can smell the electricity on the air. Stormy weather.

A few metres away, Alphonse starts from his lean against the wall. Curious, Roy looks over. The boy pulls his pone form his pocket, and his eyes widen.

“Ed?”

 _Ed?_ Al looks up to see Roy staring, and taps the screen to turn loudspeaker on. Roy hurries over; is it actually Ed? Has he somehow escaped?

“Where are you?”

“ _I have no fuckin’ clue. There’s a bunch of posh houses and some fields, if that helps.”_

“It doesn’t.” Al is grinning down at his phone; Roy can’t believe what he’s hearing. “check for road signs, brother. _Any_ signs at all.”

“ _I’m kind of hiding in someone’s shed at the moment, Al.”_

Roy is slowly but surely becoming unfazed by Ed’s activities. After stealing wallets, knife-fighting in dark alleyways and getting kidnapped by terrorists, hiding in someone’s shed really isn’t shocking. Al seems to be of the same material, except he’s had to deal with it longer so he’s even _less_ surprised. As it is, he just rolls his eyes.

“Are you being chased?” He asks, almost exasperated.

“ _Yup. By the dreadlocks guy! And some chick called Lust. Pretty sure their group is called ‘homunculi’ or something, ‘least, that’s what Greed said before they fuckin’ killed him…hang on. I can hear something.”_

Al frowns. “Do you have a laptop?” he asks, and Roy points towards his car.

“Yes, In my-,”

“I’m borrowing it.”

Taking his phone- and their only contact with Ed- with him, Al strides towards Roy’s car. He unlocks it and opens the laptop bag, pulling out the machine and setting in on the hood of the car.

Roy starts towards him, desperate to hear more of Ed’s voice, and- hang on a second. Where did Al get the keys? Roy pats his pockets, but with a sinking feeling he already knows. Apparently Ed isn’t the only Elric who can pickpocket – and Al is significantly better at it than his brother.

***

The footsteps outside the shed are getting louder. The only question is, is it Envy and Lust, or some random woman whose shed Ed has just broken into? It isn’t the most inventive hiding place, but shit, he was in the middle of being _chased_ \- and besides, it’s dark. Winter-dark. His automail is starting to ache again, deep pains starting at the wrist and running up his arm like water. His leg throbs in beat with his heart. There’s going to be a storm.

His phone flashes the low battery warning at him and he grits his teeth. He should hang up. But the phone call, one stupid, miserable phone call is the only thing connecting him an Al for possibly _miles_. Is Roy there? Is he standing close, listening? Is he worried? Fuck, Ed doesn’t even know where the hell he is. As soon as his feet hit the ground he just fucking _ran_ for it, dodging Envy and sprinting for the houses in the distance, and here he is. Hiding in the first shed he saw. Fucking _great_ idea Ed, it’s not like they’ll fucking check this one or-

The steps crunch right outside the shed, and Ed freezes. His fingers find the off button on his phone, and as the handle of the shed begins to turn, he presses it, ending the call and cutting the link. He’s on his own again, bruised and battered and bloody.

The door opens fully, and Envy grins widely at him.

“Found you!”

***

“Shit!”

Roy’s never heard Al swear before- in incredible juxtaposition to his brother, he really doesn’t seem the type. So that means something has gone _really, really_ wrong.

“What is it?”

“I’ve lost signal,” Al grits out, typing furiously at the laptop keyboard, and Roy’s heart, so recently elevated, sinks like a metal weight back into the depths of the ocean.

“Did you see his location at all?” he asks desperately, “Even for a second?”

Al clenches his fists, exhales. “I think- I _think_ \- he was somewhere around…here.” He points at the map on the screen. Roy hastens forwards, leaning in, and-

“But that’s-,”

“Just over one hundred miles away,” finishes Al, “we’d better hurry.”

He shuts the laptop, sliding it back into its case, and ducks inside the car, looking at Roy expectantly. What?

“Are we going after them?”

“Obviously.”

Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no. No way. Now _that_ is definitely against protocol. _Stop it, Roy_ , says the sensible Detective Mustang voice in his head, _think of your career. It’s not worth it_.

He gets in the car, pulling the door shut and taking the keys back from Al. he jams them into the ignition. Al’s smile is grim.

“Thank you, detective,” he says quietly, “this means a lot.”

“Don’t mention it.” Replies Roy, and guns the engine. One hundred miles out, in the middle of small, isolated town- _ish_.

 _Hold on, Ed. We’re coming_.

***

The son of a bitch is still holding Ed’s knife. _Motherfucker_. Envy seems to hear Ed’s thoughts; they glance down at the knife and start twirling it between their fingers.

Ed’s fists clench.

“you know, I’m surprised you’re still up and about,” says Envy conversationally, leaning in the doorway, “I mean, you’ve been beaten up, what, _fifty_ times in the past two days?” they eye Ed critically. “I’d estimate you’re on the verge of collapse, actually.”

Ed’s smile is savage. “You estimate wrong,” he says, and lunges- to the side, where a shovel is leaning against the wall. He spins it, swings for Envy’s head but the fucker is dancing out of Ed’s reach, laughing.

“You’re not as fast as you were before,” they observe, and Ed snarls, bringing the shovel up and leaping out of the shed to charge Envy again.

The _swish_ of the knife gives him a split second’s warning. He throws his head back, but still, the blade catches him in the cheek, and blood drips down to match the other side.

“Reflexes not as efficient, either.” Lust’s voice drifts from the shadows beside the shed. Fucking bitch, how did Ed _miss_ that?

“I really think the brat’s been _affected_ ,” muses Envy, darting forward and landing a kick to Ed’s automail shoulder, sending pain lancing through it. He tries to catch Envy with the shovel blade, but his arms are so fucking _tired_ …“Maybe we were too harsh on him, Lust.”

“Don’t be silly,” she says, “if anything, we were too lax. Remedy that, won’t you, Envy?”

Envy smiles, cruel and hungry, and their eyes glint in the darkness. “It would be my _pleasure_.”

 

“What the fuck do you want with me, anyway?” Asks Ed, playing for time as he circles Envy, shovel held aloft. Fuck, his shoulder hurts. And his fucking _ribs_ …jesus. Don’t even go there, Ed. If you ignore it, maybe it’ll go away.

Lust and Envy laugh in sync; it’s actually kind of creepy. Ed glares.

“Don’t get excited, runt,” says Envy, “we didn’t think you were anything special…at first.”

“At _first_? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Envy looks at Lust dubiously. “Not very bright, is he?” they ask, “you sure he’s meant to be a smart one?”

Lust shrugs delicately. “That’s what I’ve heard. And I was _very_ thorough. Some intelligence detective did most of the work, actually. I just eavesdropped.”

What the fuck were they on about? “So, what, you need someone _clever_?” spits Ed, “Is that it?”

“Oh, sure, think of it like that,” says Envy, shrugging. “It doesn’t really matter, anyway. It doesn’t _have_ to be you. IN fact, you’re being annoyingly uncooperative, what with the running away and all. I think I’ll just kill you _now_ …”

They run forwards, suddenly, and Ed’s been expecting it but his thoughts are moving _sluggishly_ and he stumbles away, everything _aching_.

 _Stop_ , his body moans, _just give up. We don’t want to fight anymore_.

Ed’s breath hisses out from between his teeth as Envy slashes upwards with Ed’s knife, closing the distance between them in _nanoseconds_ and opening a dark line in Ed’s arm. Lust taps her long nails against the wood of the shed.

“Hurry up, Envy,” she calls, “it’s cold.”

Envy looks at Ed like, _you see what I have to put up with_? Ed bares his teeth.

“ _Fuck_ you,” he says, breathing hard, and when Envy punches, Ed deflects it with the steel of his burning automail arm. Izumi’s training flickers through his head, and he swallows, remembers the night in the alleyway, how he’d fucking _lost_. (or at least, how he hadn’t _won_ ). He wouldn’t lose now. Not _now_ , not _today_. Not while Al was still out there, somewhere, not when _Roy_ …

He lashes out with a kick which Envy ducks under, and follows up with a back fist. _Just keep going_. He barely registers the brief flare of pain as his own knife opens slashes in his skin. _Keep fighting_. He strikes envy firmly in the chest with his automail hand and the breath whooshes out of them. Lust clicks her tongue sharply, and Envy shakes their stupid fucking dreadlocks out of their face.

“Stay back, Lust,” they say, “I can _handle_ this.”

“yeah?” asks Ed, and hefts the shovel with both hands. “Come and handle it, then.”

Granted, it’s not the wittiest of comebacks, but it’s all he’s got right now. Seems to do the trick anyway, because Envy switches to _furious_ in a violent second, and launches themselves at Ed.

 _That’s more fucking like it_. He can deal with this, this tornado of knife and flailing punches. He can do that. So long as he has something to focus on, he can do it.

He weaves in and out of the attacks, spinning the shovel like a fucking staff and blocking Envy’s attacks. He doesn’t _want_ to fucking kill anyone. Even when they want to kill him; he made up his mind years ago and he’s not gonna fucking back down now.

Envy, however, has no such qualms. Every time Ed blocks him, every time Ed gets in a lucky hit, Envy leaps back up again, attacking at full force with every fucking intention of ripping Ed’s life out of him with their bare hands.

Ed’s head throbs, he needs some fucking water and his limbs are on fire. It’s okay. _Just keep going_.

He wonders if Al traced his signal. He hopes so. He wonders if Roy’s there, wonders if he’s worried about him.

Gluttony _bit_ him earlier =, back at that warehouse. Ed hadn’t really thought about it until now, but he finds himself hoping the wound doesn’t get infected or some shit. That would really be the fucking icing on the cake.

Envy’s attacks _are_ getting slower, Now. But then, so are Ed’s. Or maybe they’ve always been this speed, and he’s just been too fucking self-centred to ever figure out that everything he’s done so far has been pure fucking _luck_ \- and what _has_ he done so far, apart from ruin Al’s fucking _life_ and get them into a ton of really nasty shit? What has he even achieved? Al’s answer would probably be _Brother, all the work you do in the lab really helps other people_ , but really, what’s he done that no other scientist couldn’t do? He’s not talented; he just got there first. He’s not _intelligent_ , he’s fucking _dumb_ ; he nearly _killed_ his little brother when he was _nine_ , and how’s he supposed to atone for that-?

The knife gouges deep in the ugly mass of scar tissue between his automail arm and his flesh shoulder. The nerves scream. Ed clamps his teeth shut, and Envy laughs. Their nose is bleeding, and there’re deep gashes over their arms where Ed held off their blows, but this is _more_. Envy raises the knife again, and Ed flings up the shovel but Envy just bats it out of the way and plunges it into Ed’s abdomen. Ouch.

They fucking stabbed me, Ed realises numbly. Or, wait, does it still count as a stab wound if the knife isn’t, like, sticking out of him? Envy’s pulled it back out, now, and the blood is getting all over his hands. Ed hadn’t even realised he’d put his hands over the wound. Al would know more about this than him. _Al_.

Envy sticks the knife back in their belt, gives Ed’s knee a shove with their boot. He stumbles, falls. Fuck. Looks like all his fucking injuries are catching up to him.

Envy grabs his hair, wrenches his head back. They’re smiling. “Look what you made me do, brat,” he says, not sounding apologetic at all. “Now we’ll have to find ourselves another scientist to cut up starfish genes and-,”

“Envy.” Lusts warning cracks like a whip, and Envy flinches, turning to her.

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” they snarl, “He’s fucking dead already, it’s not like-,”

“’M not _dead_ ,” mumbles Ed, but his mouth is full of blood. Envy twists their handful of hair.

“Sure,” they say, crouching down next to Ed, “You lie here and think about how you’re _not dead_ , while we go find your little brother. He’s probably cleverer than you, anyway.”

“Don’t fucking touch him,” Ed gasps. His fingers search the ground for the shovel. It’s there somewhere. Envy is looking back at Lust, smirking. He lets go of Ed, and Ed sways where he kneels. His fingers close around the cold handle of the shovel. Envy turns back to him.

“Don’t worry,” they say, and Ed’s grip tightens on the shovel. “We’re not gonna _hurt_ him. Much.”

They laugh, and their eyes light up with a feverish madness.

“Envy!” this time, Lust is too late. Ed’s already swinging.

 

The shovel catches Envy in the side of the neck. They choke, staring at Ed’s face, twisted into a grimace.

“Stay the fuck away from my brother,” he says, and _wrenches_. With a sickening, wet sound, the shovel drags free of Envy’s skin, and they clamp their hand over it, eyes widening.

“Lust,” they say, pleading. “ _Lust_.”

Ed looks up at her. She stands above them both, turning a knife over and over in her long fingers. The expression on her face is faintly repulsed. She stares at Envy for a few seconds, curling her lips slightly, before turning to Ed.

“Your friends are almost here,” she says, “I suppose I’ll leave it up to fate whether you bleed out or not.”

Then she turns and walks away, heels crunching on the gravelly pavement, until her footsteps fade into silence, and Ed is left with Envy’s crumpled form and his own blood, pooling in his fingers.

 _Fate_. Ed’s never been much of a believer. There are lights on in the house, but it seems miles away.

Medical textbook pages run through his mind. How blood can he lose before he passes out? Two and a half litres or something. How can he prevent that? Slowing heart rate, applying pressure, elevating wound site. How much blood has he already lost? Hard to tell. With numerous other injuries, its probably somewhere in the region of a litre. Shock will set in soon, if it hasn’t already.

He’s so _tired_.

No. he’s gotta keep breathing. For Al. Ed takes a breath, and the world comes slightly more into focus. Envy is suffocating on his own blood centimetres away. Ed won’t go the same way. No fucking chance. He presses down on the wound in his stomach with both hands, aware of the blood trickling down his automail arm. He shakes his head, shifts into a lying position. Breathe deep and slow. Slow and deep. Stay calm; keep your heart rate down. But it’s kind of hard to keep your heart rate down when you’re fucking bleeding out from _numerous stab wounds_.

Fuck. He’s not gonna die. He’s not gonna die. With shaky fingers he slides the phone from his pocket. Miracle: it’s unhurt. He dials, slowly, blood staining the screen. Al picks up on the first ring.

“ _Brother_? _We’re nearly there. Are you hurt_?”

Ed winces. “I guess…you could…fuckin’…say that,” he says, breathing laboured. He can feel Al tensing on the other end of the line.

“ _Okay,”_ he says, voice calm and carefully controlled, “ _Whatk ind of hurt?”_

“What d’you have to do f’r stab wounds?” Ed asks, “Should I…like…put a bandage on it?”

There is a long pause, and Al says, mechanically, “ _Put pressure on the wound and try to elevate the area if possible. How long has it been_?”

Ed grunts. Being stabbed is _painful_. It hasn’t happened in ages; he thought he was done getting into fucking knifefights. “’Bout…fifteen minutes? Half an hour? I dunno. Tired.”

“ _I know, brother, but you have to stay awake. Have the- people gone?”_ He can tell that Al dearly wants to use a different word than ‘people’. Ed cracks a humourless grin, looks over at Envy.

“One of ‘em’s dead,” he says, “the other two are…gone…I think. Hurry up.”

“ _we’re hurrying. Detective, can you drive any faster_?”

Detective. Roy? For some reason, Ed’s hear leaps at the thought. _No,_ he wants to say to it, _don’t leap. You’ll make me lose more blood_.

And _yes_ , Roy’s voice in the background. “ _I’m going as fast as I can, but- I’ll try_.”

“Al…love you.” Ed feels that it’s important Al knows that. God knows he’s done enough shitty things that al thinks he doesn’t.

“ _I love you too, brother. We’re- we’re at the town. Where are you?”_

“Someone’s fuckin…backyard,” says Ed. His heart rate is climbing. He can’t fucking _breathe_ -

“ _Do you know how close it is? Say something.”_

“No, I- near the road. It’s- a house with the lights on, I think. Yellow…ish.” Are those footsteps, or his own feverish imagination? His heart is pumping now, pumping all the blood from his body. Shit. He’s going to die, isn’t he? And his last words will be ‘ _yellow…ish_.’ Fucking _great_.

Someone is levering him into an upright position. There are gentle hands smoothing back his hair. He blinks sluggishly, and the world blurs. Gold eyes stare down at him.

“It’s okay, brother, I’m here. I’ve got you.”

Al. He takes a breath. Another. The average human has five litres of blood in them. How much has he lost?

“Is he-?”

“He’s alive. I need you to help me carry him, detective-,”

There are strong hands lifting him. His head is cradled against a firm chest. He looks up, and it takes nearly all of his willpower to force his eyes to move. Midnight dark eyes look down at him, feather-black hair shining in the meagre moonlight. Roy.

“It’s okay, Ed,” he’s saying, “you’re not allowed to die, okay?”

Okay. Sure. Just so long as Ed gets to hear that voice, again, okay. Sure.

He has the vague sensation of movement. Al’s voice, and Roy’s. But he can’t make out the words, and his head is so fucking tired. All of him aches. Being kidnapped sucks.

There are soft leather seats beneath his head, and Al says something. Something else. He reaches down, and-

“Brother!”

“Don’t- fuckin’… _slap_ me…” Ed mumbles, trying to narrow his eyes. Whose car is this? The seats will be all stained.

“Sorry. Brother, we’re going to have to cauterise this. Can you hear me? We have to cauerise it, otherwise- you’ve lost a lot of blood. This is going to hurt _a lot_ , okay?”

Cauterise. Ed knows what that means. Burning. Closing the wound.

He nods, slowly. Al is looking at him with serious honey eyes. “Okay,” rasps Ed, and his throat is dry as _shit_. “Okay. That’s okay.”

Al nods, and there’s a flurry of movement, and Roy’s hands are on his shoulders. His eyes are so dark.

“This is going to hurt,” he says, and Ed rolls his eyes.

“I _know_.” There’s a stinging sensation on his stomach. Al is cleaning the site. Cauterisation. Ed’s done this before, does Roy know that? Everyone is treating him like he doesn’t know what the fuck _pain_ means.

Al really does carry his heavy-duty medical kit everywhere. That’s Ed’s fault, too.

“Okay, brother,” says Al. “Are you ready?”

He passes something, a stick, to Roy, who glances at Ed.

“You’re going to want this,” he says, and Ed frowns. He didn’t need it before, but he’s too fucking _worn out_ to protest.

Besides, he’s already biting down on it. Roy’s eyes really are dark. Dark and liquid and when you look at them, you can see they’re kind of full of light, too, like tiny universes, like the fabric of space scattered with stars. Al says something, Roy’s hands tense against Ed’s shoulders, and

 

“Is he going to be alright?”

Al wipes his hand over his brow, pulling the bandage tight. “I don’t know,” he says quietly, and Roy takes a deep, deep breath. Nods. He gets into the car; they left the engine running.

“Then the sooner we get him back, the better,” he says.

 


	11. Hospital Blues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N- THIS IS SO LATE OH MY GOD  
> I'm so sorry I honestly have been meaning to post this for _days_ but I just....didn't. I don't know. I seriously don't know why I didn't post this sooner, like I'm pretty sure I haven't even been especially busy???? I have no excuses.  
>  uGH  
> But, it's here now. And I'm fairly certain I edited this while listening to 'Grand Optimist' by City and Colour on repeat, so...there might be some bittersweet-ness. idk. (god damn I love that song)  
> ENJOY THIS YOU GUYS AND THANK YOU FOR BEING GREAT <3  
> p.s. I really meant for this to be the chapter where Winry enters the scene, but I apparently got too caught up with the boys so look forwards to her grand entrance in the next one, okay? Don't worry, I haven't forgotten about her ^^;

The sun has risen, and the strange grey light of morning permeates every inch of the hospital room. At the bedside, Al blinks blearily, shifting his grip on his brother’s hand. Riza came in half an hour ago, to tell Roy that Archer had returned to the office and to give him and Al some incredibly strong black coffee. He’d told her to take the rest of the day off- and to tell Havoc and Maes to do the same- but she’d just given him a _look_ and went to write up her report.

He scrubs his hands over face, looking down at Ed, who lies so _still_ in the hospital bed it’s terrifying. Even in the short time that Roy’s known him, he’s seen the sparks in his eyes, the restless energy inside him. Now, though, Ed’s head is heavy against the pillow and only the light rise and fall of his chest gives any indication that he’s even alive.

Al takes a break from staring, unmoving, at the shadows smudged like bruises under his brother’s eyes to gaze into the depths of his coffee. Ed’s hair is loose and tangled; spread over the pillow the bright golden colour seems dull in comparison to the pristine white sheets. He’s dressed now in a loose, pale shirt that Al had fetched from their apartment for him. His left hand, lying limply on top of the sheets, is pale and scored with faint scars; a plastic splint and dressing adorn his index finger.

It’s only been about three hours since they made their escape from the town; about half an hour after that they’d stopped at the side of the road to call the ambulance, a safe distance from any remaining attackers. Al’s face had not changed from it’s haunted, grim expression since then. Ed’s been in the hospital for about two hours now, but it’s only within the last thirty minutes that Roy and Al have been allowed in to see him.

“Brother hates hospitals,” says Al suddenly, his voice cracking slightly. He clears his throat as Roy looks at him. “He’ll probably have a huge tantrum when he wakes up.”

Roy feels something inside him _pang_ at the word. _When_. Not ‘if he wakes up’. _When_. Al says it with so much casual certainty, and Roy has never been so grateful towards another human being.

On the bed, Ed shifts slightly, a frown creasing his forehead. His hair whispers over the sheets as he shakes his head from side to side, forehead crinkling. What is he dreaming? Al grips his hand more tightly.  
The doctor’s report is lying on the bedside table, a sheaf of papers detailing each and every injury. Roy kind of hates that, after all of Ed’s protests, it took being kidnapped and stabbed for him to see the inside of the hospital.

He should be at the office. He should be reading case files and signing papers and drawing diagrams. He should be dealing with the superiors and narrowing his eyes at Archer. He should be digging deeper into his theories.

He doesn’t want to leave. _Can’t_ leave, which is worse. Something is keeping him here, next to this bedside, and with a sinking heart he knows he’s not strong enough to pull away. So he’ll wait, then. Until Ed wakes up. Until he knows for sure that the doctor’s “he’s in a stable condition” is _true_.

It’s at that point that Ed takes a deep, shuddering breath, and opens his eyes.

***

Oh, _shit_ , his everything hurts like fucking _hell_. Sure, he’s been shot and stabbed and gone through fucking automail surgery before, but- this is _really, really painful_.

Fuck, he’s gonna kill that fucking Dreadlo-

 

Ed’s eyes crack open, and Al is staring down at him, clutching onto his left hand like he’s holding on for dear life. Oh, god, Ed must’ve really worried him this time. He grins, slowly and painfully, and Al bursts into tears and flings his arms around him.

With his free hand patting Al clumsily on the back, Ed tips his head forwards and allows himself to close his eyes for just a second, and just _be_. Just be really, really relieved, and so _glad_ that he’s here, with Al, even if it’s a-

“This is a fucking _hospital_ ,” he groans, and Al doesn’t relinquish his death hug one bit.

“brother,” he says by way of reply, “don’t you ever, _ever_ dare to worry me like that _ever_ again, do you understand me?” He’s warm, and slim, and his grip is bordering on a cling. Breathing in the familiar Al-smell, Ed nods against Al’s bony shoulder.

“ _Promise_ me, Ed,” Says Al, hair tickling against Ed’s neck.

“Jeez, Al,” says Ed, but he doesn’t really mean it. “I promise.”

Al’s embrace is tight, and kind of putting a lot of pressure on Ed’s bruised (hell, they’re probably fucked beyond repair now) ribs , and he wriggles a little. But not too much because he doesn’t _really_ want Al to let go, no matter how much his ribs are protesting. His heart is full, full, full, and Al is here, and safe, and they’re okay. All the same, he can’t hold back the tiny flinch when Al’s arms squeeze just a _tad_ too tightly around his middle. He battles down the grimace, but Al springs back, looking guilty as _fuck._

“Sorry, sorry, brother,” he says, smoothing the sheets frantically, “are you oka-,”

Ed yanks the sheets away from his brother and scowls as darkly as he can. “ _Yes_ ,” he says, “I’m _fine_ , actually, you didn’t do anyth- holy _shit!”_

Because he’s just spotted Roy on his right side, who has been standing by the window imitating a statue for the entire exchange thus far.

“Ro _\- Mustang_? What the fuck? You fucking- scared me-,” and this time, the wince is a hell of a lot more pronounced. Ed leans reluctantly back against the pillows, and concedes that jumping in shock is possibly not the best idea when you have numerous bruises and a stab wound.

Roy unfreezes, stepping forwards…cautiously? Ed stares at him. In the corner of his eye, he can see Al staring at him staring at Roy.

“Are you alright?” Roy’s voice is low, and kind of…husky, and kind of tired, and Ed is in _way_ too much pain to be getting turned on right now.

“Yeah,” says Ed, and his voice comes out lower than he expected it to. He coughs, tries again. “yeah, I’m good. We….really need to stop meeting like this.” He cracks a grin, and Roy mirrors him, and his smile breaks the frosted air between them and everything has fallen away. Ed notes how the set of Roy’s mouth has just the edge of relief in it; it’s an edge that promises something _so_ much deeper. So he really was worried. Ed makes the mistake of dragging his gaze to Roy’s eyes, and fucking tumbles into the god damn well of inky star streaked cosmic fabric.

 

Al clears his throat loudly. “Right,” he says cheerfully, looking resolutely at his phone screen, “now that you’re awake and protesting your injuries once more, brother, I’d better go and wait for Winry at the station.”

 _Winry_. “Oh, shit,” says Ed, struggling into a sitting position again. Rou makes to move forward like, what, he’s gonna help Ed up? “She’s coming down today, isn’t she?”

“She’s already on her way,” says Al, and he bends to give Ed a firm hug, mindful of his injuries. “So I’ll just leave you two…in peace…”

He sidles away, raising his eyebrows at Ed, who turns _bright fucking red_. “Al!” he rasps, fighting both his stupid fucking red face and these stupid fucking bed sheets, “ _get back here, you little-,_ ” As his limbs become hopelessly tangled, Roy steps forwards again, laughing silently.

“You’ll fall out of the bed if you keep doing that,” he remarks, “and then you’ll hurt yourself even more.” He’s standing kind of stiffly. Tense. Ed’s not _incredibly_ good at reading people, but over the years he’s picked some things up. It’s useful, being able to give yourself at least _some_ warning that the criminal you’re chatting to is about to pull a knife. Saved his life a couple times.

Snarling at the sheets encasing his legs, Ed flips him off, resolutely looking down. It’s only when a weight on the other side of the bed makes him turn around as fast as he can without, like, giving himself a broken neck on top of everything else.

Roy is less than half a metre away. Close enough that Ed can smell his fancy fucking musky scent and see the shadows forming under his eyes. Close enough that Ed can see each of his individual eyelashes and- hang on, he wasn’t _that_ close.

Oh. Ed realises he’s leaning in. Leaning _up_ , which he prefers not to think about.

“I’m glad you’re alright,” says Roy, and for a second Ed swears he sees genuine worry pass over Roy’s eyes. His hand makes an involuntary movement like he’s about to reach for Ed or something, and he carefully folds the fingers of his other hand over them . he takes a breath, and Ed watches his jawline bob up and down. It’s a nice jawline. Solid. “For a while, I thought you’d-,”

And that’s when Ed closes the distance between them with a growl and captures Roy’s lips with his.

All of Ed’s injuries seem to just fucking poof out of existence the moment Roy starts to respond. Slowly, hesitantly, his hand rises to thread itself in Ed’s hair, and Ed sighs against him. It’s too much, in his wrung-out dishcloth state, but at the same time it’s not even close to being enough. Ed moves closer; their chests collide- gently, but all the same Ed’s ribs send a warning flare of pain through his nervous system. He doesn’t care. Roy pulls back just slightly, hands stroking at Ed’s back. He growls; this isn’t the time for _taking it slow_. Fuck having injuries! Fuck being in hospital! Fuck the door being wide open! Ed wants him, and want’s him _now_ -

Roy’s lips move against his, and it’s deep and measured and supernovas are doing the tango in Ed’s brain. In a good way. In a not entirely unprecedented show of quick rethinking, Ed decides that maybe Roy makes a pretty good case for _taking it slow_.

He trails his left hand up Roy’s back, lazily winding his fingers through the little tufts of hair at the base of his neck. They’re really… cute tufts of hair; like little baby feathers. Roy laughs softly into his mouth and oh _hell_ yeah, this is good, this is _great_ ; why hasn’t Ed thought of this before? Taking it slow is…nice. Nice.

The sheet rustle as Ed loops his arms around Roy’s neck. This is kind of straining his ribs a little, especially in this position, but he doesn’t want to _stop_.

It’s like Roy’s psychic or some shit, seriously. He leans down more, supporting himself with one hand on the mattress, letting Ed relax back again. This is so _typical_. Of course he turns out to be a fucking gentleman as well as a drop-dead gorgeous detective-bastard. It’s not _fair_.

His fingers tug through the tangles in Ed’s hair, pulling at his scalp and oh, _god_ , he’s going to do something drastic if this keeps going. Something like yanking Roy’s shirt out form his waistband and sliding his flesh palm up over his smooth, flat stomach grazing the ridges of his ribcage. His splint is rough against roy’s alabaster skin, and it catches a little, disturbing the injury but Ed doesn’t give a _fuck_. Roy murmurs into the kiss, and takes Ed’s other hand in his, threading his fingers through it and gripping tightly.

This is- heady and full and Ed’s fucking addicted; since he first kissed Roy in that fucking alleyway a thousand years ago he’s been starving for another taste, another kiss, another touch.

“Doctors will be here soon,” says Roy in his fucking amazing voice, all deep and low and velvety. Ed pulls him back down.

“’Don’t care,” he mumbles, and crushes his lips to Roy’s again. How long can they just kiss? How long until this turns into something more? They’ve had sex, now- and Ed can’t shake the memory of it, can’t help needing more of it.

Roy appears to have had the same thought. “We can take this up again- later,” he gets out between kisses, “when we’re not in a hospital with thin walls and the possibility of unsuspecting doctors walking in on us.”

“Scared, Mustang?” says Ed in his best seductive voice, tracing the hollow of Roy’s throat with his tongue.

And Roy catches Ed’s face in his hands, pulls him up; his lips are fucking _angstroms_ away from Ed’s. His voice vibrates all the way through Ed as he murmurs, “Of course not. I’d just hate to be interrupted half way through and have to _stop_ …”

Oh, fuck. Ed’s gone, just like that: hook, line and sinker.

 

 

Ed kisses him open mouthed, and there is such a _need_ in his fiercely golden eyes that Roy’s heart forgets how to beat. Ed’s palm skates down across his abs, presses flat against his hipbone, and Roy’s whole body pulses for him. This is stupid, and crazy, and ridiculous, and _stupid_ , and- at risk of sounding like a teenage girl- he’s never felt like this before. Never.

He breaks back, Ed tries to drag him down and Roy wants him so _much_. “You’re hurt,” he says, and his voice is thinner sounding than it’s ever been in his life. “Ed. Stop.”

Ed pauses, eyes blazing, and licks his lips slowly. Does he know he’s doing that? Is he purposefully trying to drive Roy deeper into insanity?

“Ed,” he says again, and his heart thunders, “We can’t. Not- not right now,” he says quickly, as Ed narrows his eyes, drawing his head back like he’s preparing to attack him, “but later, if you still want to, we can take this up again.”

For a second, they stay like that: Roy kneeling on the bed, fingers still hooked loosely in the material of Ed’s pale shirt; Ed looking up at him with narrowed golden eyes, lips swollen and red, hair loose and mussed and his fingers tantalisingly soft on Roy’s hip.

Then he pulls his hand away, shaking his head, grinning sharply. “Sure, Mustang,” he drawls, and Roy forces himself to unhook his fingers from Ed’s shirt. “But you owe me. _Big time_.”

Roy finds himself smiling- open, and filled with lust and- maybe, possibly, something just a little more. “I’m make it up to you,” he promises, and captures Ed’s eyes with his gaze. “You can count on that.”

The way the blood rushes to Ed’s cheeks as his tongue darts out to moisten his lower lip makes Roy’s head spin. _This guy_ …

“I’ll hold you to that,” says Ed just the slightest bit breathlessly, and it’s Roy’s turn to lick his dry lips as he levers himself off the bed.

Just in time, too: brisk footsteps sound outside the door and Roy straightens his rumpled shirt, backing up a few paces as the door swings open.

 

***

The doctor has a moustache and a permanently serious expression. His gaze sweeps briefly over the dishevelled bed sheets, Ed’s loose hair and Roy’s untucked shirt, and Ed feels his redness intensify. He makes no comment, and instead heads to the small table at the side, retrieving the papers there.

“Edward Elric,” he says distractedly, “your brother informed us on his way out that you had woken up; how are you feeling.”

“ _Fine_ ,” says Ed, and grumpiness takes over his embarrassment. “’Just wanna get out of here already.”

The doctor nods, slowly. “Well,” he says, tapping the papers on the table to straighten them, “unfortunately, I don’t think you’ll be in a fit state to be discharged for a few days; your injuries-,”

“ _Excuse me_?”

 

Apparently Al had neglected to inform the doctors that Ed took less than kindly to hospitals. And to staying put. And to doctors trying to tell him to stay put in the hospital, because the man’s face slowly drains of colour as Ed’s ranting takes to new, greater heights.

“-not fucking staying here so give me the discharge forms and I’ll-,”

“Ed,” interrupts Roy with great calm, “listen to what the doctor has to say before you force me to arrest you for verbal assault.”

Ed cuts off mid-sentence, and the full force of his ferocious gaze is directed at Roy. It’s all he can do not to take a step back, but somehow he manages to maintain eye contact, and after a few seconds Ed turns the intensity of his glare down, settling for a mulish kind of silence.

The doctor ruffles his papers again, shifts from foot to foot, and clears his throat. “Yes,” he says weakly, “thank you. As I was saying- Mr. Elric, I’m afraid the possibility of discharge just isn’t feasible at this stage. The majority of your injuries are very severe.” Ed starts to glare again, and the doctor kind of flinches before soldiering on. Roy’s impressed. “Y- your body has maintained heavy damage and trauma, particularly in the case of the abdominal wound and the blunt force trauma to your ribs,” he says. “Additionally,” he refers to the papers here, “you’ve been diagnosed with suffering from sleep deprivation and a large number of other, secondary injuries, mainly bruising.”

He lowers the paper, and- rather bravely, in Roy’s opinion-looks Ed in the eyes, expression grave.

“You need to rest,” he says, “and regain your strength. I estimate that it will be at least two weeks before you’re fit to be moved, and even after that you won’t be able to do any sort of strenuous activity for at least a month, possibly more. You’re very lucky,” he finishes, and Ed closes his rant-ready mouth, eyebrows lowering. Roy can tell that it’s not the first time he’s heard these words. “You very nearly died.”

Ed looks down, but not before Roy sees the corner of his mouth twist into a bitter smile.

 

It’s another ten minutes before the doctor leaves, but Ed hasn’t been paying attention to anything he said. _You’ve very lucky_. Lucky? _You very nearly died_. Not the first time, not the last. His automail hand tightens in the bedclothes. Roy has excused himself to take a call, and Ed is alone. He breathes, very slowly, being careful not to make a noise.

He’s not staying here, that’s for certain. If Al doesn’t come back to break him out, he’ll leave himself, _screw_ being ‘unfit to move’. He’s an adult, dammit, they can’t fuckin’ _keep_ him here. Discharge forms. He needs some of those. And if they refuse to give them to him, well fuck _them_ , he’ll climb out the god damn window if he has to.

He can’t stay here. Not with the smell of antiseptic worming its way through his senses; not with the little round tablets and the glass of water next to the bed; not with the bare lights buzzing above him; not with the fucking whitewashed fucking _walls_ …

There’s a small tearing noise, and Ed looks down to see that he’s twisted the sheets so much they’ve ripped.

It’s too similar, too fucking familiar. This place is just like any other hospital, just like a very specific hospital two states away, and it’s dredging up memories of his mom’s death and the crash and the automail attachment and the fucking pills they gave him-

He’s not staing here. He’ll fight his way out if he has to.

 

The door opens, and Roy walks back in. Ed doesn’t look up, focuses on relaxing his shoulder but he knows Roy’s already noted and analysed his tense, spring-tight posture.

There’s a rustling sound, and Roy wordlessly puts a sheaf of papers into his lap. Ed jerks his head up, and roy is looking back down at him, face unreadable.

“Discharge forms,” he says softly, “you just have to sign them.”

There’s a lump in Ed’s throat, and he can’t force any words out from behind it. He doesn’t need to. Roy can see it all in his face.

With a small smile, Roy pulls a pen out of his pocket and hands it to Ed.

“I remember you said you hated hospitals,” he says, and Ed’s hands are shaking as he flips through each page, signing on the dotted line. “I figured it’s something to do with…the accident.”

Oh yeah, Ed told him about that didn’t he? He’d forgotten.

“How’d you get ‘em to hand these over, anyway?” he asks, voice gravelly as it forces its way out of his oesophagus.

Roy’s laugh is silky and low, and it sends these amazing little tingles through Ed’s body. “I’m very good at persuading people that what I want them to do is what they want them to do,” he says. “It wasn’t especially difficult.”

Ed cracks a grin. Last page. “So you’re a manipulative bastard,” he translates, casually signing with his stupid left-handed scrawl, and flips the pages back into the right order. “Guess I already knew that, though.”

Roy takes the papers from him, and meets his eyes. “Does it worry you?” he asks, and his face is so painfully open and sincere that Ed _aches_.

“Nah,” he replies softly, truthfully, and quirks a grin suddenly. “You know I’d kick your ass if you tried to manipulate me.”

Roy –smiles, eyes crinkling up into little crescents of night time. “I know,” he says. “And I won’t.”

“Good.”

And, for once, it is.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> !!!!!!!!!!!!A CHAPTER AT LAST OHMYGOSH  
>  how long has it been? more than a week, i know that for sure. two weeks? more???? ;n;
> 
> BUT there is a chappie here, and according to microsoft word, it's 4,757 words long, so.....longer than usual haha ^^;  
> In this chapter: winry!!! winry is here!!!! and there is confused!roy being in denial about his and ed's lurve, bc he's a dumbass, and there's stubborn!ed being in denial about his and roy's lurve, bc he's an even bigger (smaller??) dumbass than roy is. yay. 
> 
> i am actually writing the next instalment *as we speak* but i'm not sure if i can finish it tonight because i have school tomorrow but???? what the hell???? i might as well try anyway right
> 
> \- unbeta'd  
> \- unedited  
> \- :(((((  
> \- hope u enjoy it! <3

The apartment is as dull as ever, still dark even though the sun has risen, when Ed steps over the threshold, Roy trailing behind him like a puppy. Ed glances back at him, and he smiles, arms full of paperwork and dressings and a head full of doctor’s orders. Ed’s phone buzzes; he slides it out of his pocket- he’s back in his ripped and bloody jeans, though the shirt Al brought for him is wonderfully soft and cool against his skin. 

“Al’s at the station, waiting for Winry,” he says into the silence, flicking on the light switch and immediately wishing he hadn’t. The dim light only makes the stupid shitty beat-up couch and stained furniture look even cheaper. “I- uh, I guess her train’s been delayed or something.”

Roy in his doorway. Roy in his hall. Roy leaning against the wall like a goddamn gorgeous bastard modelling the ‘tired but still hot as fuck’ look.

Or something.

Ed shakes his head, regrets _that_ too as it throbs painfully in retaliation. Roy is staring at him, which is making him feel…hot….and-

“Well, the terms of your dischargement were that you would rest up and allow regular visits from medical staff,” says Roy cheerfully, and walks forward to tug Ed further into the apartment. “Which way is your bedroom?”

Ed does _not_ blush fiercely, that would be fucking stupid and he’s not a _girl_ anyway. “Pretty sure ‘dischargement’ isn’t a fucking word, Roy,” he says, taking great care not to stumble on the name, “and anyway, don’t you have detective things to be doing?”

They’re holding hands, kind of, since Roy’s got one arm round Ed’s waist and the kind of interlaced with Ed’s in order to support him or whatever- except he doesn’t need to be supported, obviously, he’s _fine_.

“I want to make sure you get some sleep, at least,” he says softly, and Ed trips over his own feet.

It’s thanks to Roy’s strong arm that Ed doesn’t faceplant the carpet, and while he’s grateful for that, his ribs are _not_ , because they flare up at Roy’s touch.

“Shit- sorry,” he says, steadying Ed with his hand resting gingerly on his shoulders, and, with his eyebrows all wrinkled and concerned, “we seriously need to get you to bed.”

There is a long silence. Slowly, Ed raises his eyebrows.

“Oh- I didn’t mean it like _that_ ,” says Roy, and the beginnings of a laugh are tugging at the corners of his mouth as Ed sniggers.

“Come on,” he laughs, “you walked right fuckin’ into that one, Mustang,” and Roy sighs, which is eerily reminiscent of Al’s _yes alright brother I’ll just keep humouring you_ sigh, and Ed stops laughing.

They’re standing in the doorway to the bedroom, now, and Ed is facing Roy, looking up ( _not_ because he has any kind of diminished height, _alright_ , it’s because Roy is a fucking dumbass and definitely taller than is fair, actually) into his face, tired and shadowed in this light.

“Ed,” he says quietly, and Ed steels himself for a speech, “you need to sleep. You’re- injured, and even though you keep saying you’re fine, and even though I’m so, so fucking glad you’re alright…you’ve been through a hell of a lot, and you really do need to sleep properly.”

His eyes are softer, now, gentler, and he smoothes Ed’s bangs away from his face. Ed scowls on principle, because _while_ it may or may not feel actually quite fantastic, he is _not_ some kind of fucking _cat_ to be _petted_.

Speaking of cats, Snooky is winding around Roy’s ankles, purring. Fuck. Should’ve known the bastard would charm even the fucking _cat_ to his side.

“Fine,” says Ed, and he really does mean it this time. “But only because _you_ need to get some sleep too, and you can’t if you’re standing there looking at me with your fucking puppy dog eyes.”

Roy smiles, slowly, and his eyes are full of light. “If you want to fall asleep with me, all you have to do is say.”

The blush hits Ed’s face like a bucket of paint and he smacks at Roy as the bastard starts to laugh. “Fuck you! I’m not a fucking _girl_ \- and you don’t fuckin’ have to be here if you don’t-,”

“Ed, Ed,” says Roy, holding up his hands in surrender, “of course I want to be here. Of course I want to fall asleep with you. It’s- actually, it’s probably the best thing I can think of doing, right now.”

Ed leans up to kiss him, and this- this feels kind of- this is a _couple thing_ , isn’t it? Falling asleep together- just sleeping, without sex- isn’t that a _boyfriend_ thing to do? Fuck. He’s not- they’re not _in a relationship_ , are they? Fuck, _fuck_ -

“Ed? What’s wrong?” Roy pulls back, hands on Ed’s shoulders, and stares at him. “Did I-?”

“What? No! No, shut up, it’s not- you’re fine. Just…” Ed fidgets with the bottom of his shirt for a second, and says to Snooky, sprawled on the carpet at Roy’s feet, “just because we’re doing- this, doesn’t mean we’re, we’re, gonna fuckin’ -hold hands and buy flowers and shit. We’re not- dating, okay?”

For a second, Roy doesn’t say anything, and Ed looks up quickly in case he missed something, and Roy’s going to walk out of the apartment like so many others before-

“That’s fine, Ed,” says Roy, and in reply to Ed’s sceptical look, “seriously. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, you know that, right? You don’t have to be in a relationship to do ‘this’, as you put it.”

“I know that,” mutters Ed, and kicks at the carpet a little. “Not fuckin’ dumb. Okay. Cool. Let’s...sleep, I guess.” This is awkward. Has he made it awkward? He risks a glance into Roy’s face, and he’s smiling again, perfectly at ease and fucking _breathtaking_ in the meagre grey light of morning.

“Sure,” says Roy, and Ed leads him over the threshold.

 

Pulling the sheets over them with a huff, Ed wriggles to find a comfortable place to lie on Roy’s chest, scowling as he sees the bastard looking down at him with a distinctly _amused_ look in his stupid dark eyes.

“ _What_?” he mutters, finally finding the perfect position to curl into the warmth of Roy’s skin. It’s funny, from the way the man acts, you’d never guess that his skin is constantly lit with delicious heat, like there’s a little fire inside him. He’s a radiator. A _roy_ diator. Ed snickers.

“Nothing,” says Roy, and then frowns. “What are you laughing at?”

“Nothin’,” Ed chants straight back at him, and his grin is broken by a yawn. “….Tired,” he admits sleepily, thumping his head back to Roy’s chest. Mm. The Roydiator is comfortable. “…Warm.”

A hand gently strokes over his head, fingers combing through his hair. “Go to sleep, then,” comes Roy’s whispered reply, and even with the sun struggling to break through the clouds, and the clock ticking onwards into the day, he does.

***

Roy wakes up to the smell of coffee and what sounds like a muffled argument in the next room.

The next room. He’s in Ed’s apartment. In Ed’s (or Al’s?) bed. The grey city light is streaming through the window now, casting slanting shadows through the half-open blinds. He’s still wearing his suit from yesterday; the collar is uncomfortably tight and everything is bound to be creased beyond repair, but he can’t bring himself to regret it. Because Ed- golden and bruised and beautiful- is lying half on top of him, one hand splayed out against Roy’s shirt as if to keep him there.  
  
Slowly, he sits up. Stares down at the softly breathing man curled against his chest, warm and surprisingly heavy, eyelashes splayed dark against the golden skin of his cheek and the strands of hair falling in front of his face fluttering in time with his breathing.

Roy sits up fully, careful not to dislodge Ed, wincing as he levers himself upright and Ed starts to slide off of him. But he shouldn’t have worried- all Ed does is mutter something indistinguishable into Roy’s skin and shift into a more comfortable position with his head against Roy’s left arm.

 He’s still so _pale_ : Roy doesn’t know whether to wake him or to leave him to sleep: he should eat, but he hasn’t slept properly in days; he should drink something- but he hasn’t slept properly in _days_ …

The voices from the other room have stopped. There are quiet footsteps, and the door swings open slowly. Al stands in the doorway, hands cupped around his steaming mug, looking vaguely harried.

Roy opens his mouth, without the slightest idea of what he’s going to say, and Al removes one hand from his coffee cup to wave him off.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says quietly, glancing at Ed’s sleeping form, “I’m sorry- did I wake you? It’s just, Winry’s here and she’s a little…confused about the whole situation.”

Roy swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands up, gaze lingering on Ed, slumped into the mattress like he wants to burrow into it. “Oh, no,” he says, “really, Alphonse, I’ve imposed on you too much- and I should be at work….” He glances at his watch, “….five minutes ago. Damn.”

Al smiles faintly and moves aside to let Roy through the doorway. “Not at all,” he says, and hesitates. “You make Ed happy,” he says at last, and his eyes, precisely the same shade of honey-gold, are locked on Roy’s, unreadable. “And if Ed’s happy, I’m happy.”

There’s a clattering sound from the kitchen, and a girl’s voice complains, “jeez, you guys don’t even have _plates_ …” Al sets his mug on the coffee table, and nods in the direction of the voice.

“That’s Winry,” he says, “I expect she’ll come in in a second to interrogate you, so…” he looks pointedly towards the hall leading to the door, and Roy smiles gratefully.

“Right.”

Roy finds his shoes in the hallway; he toes them on. The cat comes padding in, yawning, and twines herself once around his ankles before leaping lightly into Al’s arms.

“Listen, Alphonse,” says Roy, pausing in the act of opening the door. Al looks at him expectantly.  “About Ed. I remember you said to me…”

“ ‘I hope you know what you’re getting into’,” echoes Al, and nods. “It still stands. Detective…”

Roy takes a breath. “Yes?”

“I don’t know what my brother said to you yesterday,” Al says, slowly, “But I know him. And I know that he-,”

“ _Alphonse Elric_.”

Al doesn’t get a chance to finish his sentence: both he and Roy turn in surprise. A pretty blonde girl is standing in the entrance to the sitting room, hands on her hips and a scowl like thunderclouds across her face. Her eyes move slowly from Al to Roy; they narrow dangerously.

“ _So,_ ” She says, not moving, “You must be _Roy_. I’ve heard _so much_ about you- it would be a shame for you to leave without being introduced properly, right?” She smiles, and there is a lot of Ed’s sharp grin in it. Roy swallows.

Al turns back to him, eyebrows raised. “You want some coffee?” he asks, and Roy’s heart sinks.

 

***

“A detective, huh?” says Winry, leaning back against the sofa, legs crossed. Roy nods.

“Yes,” he says carefully, and before he can continue, she interrupts him.

“Well, that’s nice. A detective, dating my almost-brother. You want to tell me what’s going on with Ed, by the way? Al wasn’t very clear on the whole _kidnapped and tortured_ thing.”

She speaks with steel in her words, but Roy can tell that she’s upset- maybe even holding back tears. And why wouldn’t she be? Her ‘almost-brother’, who, from what he’s gathered so far, she hasn’t seen for three years, has just been released from hospital, injured beyond the coping capacities of most average human beings.

Hell, Roy’d be worried too. Roy _is_ worried too.

“We’re not _dating_ , Winry.”

Ed is standing in the bedroom doorway, scowling, barefoot and sleep-ruffled, one hand on the door handle. Roy suspects he’s using it to support himself: the way he holds himself suggests that his ribs are hurting again.

“ _Ed_!”

Winry jumps up from the sofa, and speeds towards Ed, pulling up just short of hugging him. He grins crookedly up at her, and from the couch, Roy sees his grip on the door handle momentarily tighten as he shifts his weight.

“What’s up, Win’?” He says, and she bursts into tears.

 

 

“- _stupid fucking idiot-_ why’d you always have to go and get yourself injured? You’re such a dumbass, I can’t believe-,”

Winry dabs angrily at her eyes with a tissue, and Ed stands by looking sheepish. Al hands him some coffee and some painkillers.

“No arguments,” he says sternly, and Ed wilts. He swallows the painkillers dry and collapses on the couch next to Roy, who is unsure whether or not to make his escape while everyone’s distracted. His phone is dead, battery drained, but he fully expects to have at least thirteen missed calls from Hughes and Riza when he turns it back on.  

“Not my fault she’s so emotional,” mutters Ed, but Roy can tell he doesn’t mean it, and Winry rounds on Ed, eyes blazing.

“You!” she says, “since it’s been _hours_ and _still_ no one has yet told me what’s going on, _you_ can explain it to me. _What aren’t you telling me_?”

Ed almost chokes on his gulp of coffee. “…Win….” He starts uneasily, setting the mug on the table, “It’s not really that much of a-,”

“If,” says Winry, jumping up and stalking towards him, “You say that it’s “ _not a big deal_ ”, so help me, Ed, I’ll-,”

“Al _right_ ,” says Al from where he sits, petting Snooky, on the floor. He looks towards Ed, who is leaning as far back in his seat as he can, and continues, “I think we should all just sit down and talk about this _civilly.”_

Winry sends Ed a poisonous look, but complies. “Fine,” she says, flicking her hair out of her face and straightening her skirt, “let’s talk about this. First question: Ed, what the _hell_ happened to you?”  


All eyes turn to Ed. He squirms, then winces.

“I,” he says, “was, ever-so-slightly, kidnapped by a terrorist group who call themselves the homunculi, and- it-wasn’t-my-fault-I-didn’t-start-anything-,”

“Oh, bull _shit_!” cries Winry, “alright, you were kidnapped- but I call bullshit on the grounds that you _always_ ‘start it’! remember last year, when Al called me up to tell me that you were in the hospital with _internal bleeding,_ but not to worry because you’d ‘deal with it’? Remember that? And remember how it turned out that you’d _purposely_ antagonised some gang leader somewhere and-,”

“That was _not_ my fault! That guy was a fucking prick- he was selling drugs to twelve year olds! _Twelve year olds_ , Winry, you expect me to just sit back and _let_ that happen?”

Winry looks close to tears again, her face is red and furious; her hands are bunched in fists. Ed doesn’t look much better, except for the fact that Roy is having to hold him back from jumping up in case he damages himself even more, and Al is watching the whole exchange with the face of someone who has seen it many times before.

“Maybe not, but there had to have been a better alternative than _asking_ to be beaten half to death! And what about this time, what did you _do_ , Ed? I- every time this happens, I think I’m gonna lose you two again! After everything- after, after _everything_ , do you think I can bear to see you get yourself killed?”

Her voice has risen to a shout, and Ed falters. On the floor, Al looks down at his hands. Ed’s face is stricken, and slowly, he deflates. Winry takes a deep, shuddering breath, and squares her jaw.

“I can’t watch it all happen again, Ed,” she says into the silence. “I _can’t_.”

Ed looks down at Al, and he slumps back into his seat; Roy relaxes his grip on Ed’s arms.

“I know, Win,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry.”

His face is drained; his eyes are tired, and in that moment, Roy sees a _universe_ of hurt behind the bravado. After all of it, Ed has kept going. After all of it, Ed is still, here, fighting for the weak, for the victims. He is the strongest person Roy has ever met. He is the strongest person Roy ever _will_ meet.

“Please just tell me what happened,” says Winry, leaning forwards, face so full of pleading and emotion.

 

 

Unconsciously, Ed leans back against Roy, shoulders snug in Roy’s cautious arms. Human contact- any human contact. Roy’s warmth, Roy’s now-familiar smell surrounding him. He clears his throat.

“Okay,” he says, because Winry does deserve to know. After all, she’s been nothing but a fucking pillar for him and Al since they were kids; she’s like the last part of _home_ that they’ve _got_.

“Okay,” he says again, and with Roy’s arms holding him, with Al safe and sipping coffee beside him, he tells her everything.

 

***

Roy doesn’t know where his relationship with Ed stands, doesn’t know where he _wants_ it to stand, but with Ed leaning against him in the doorway, still so tired after being dragged through hell (how many times now? There are secrets in Ed and Al’s past that Roy isn’t sure he wants to know about), Roy feels like it doesn’t matter. As long as he gets to see him again, it doesn’t matter.

“You need me to give an interview or whatever?” asks Ed, yawning. Roy smiles down at him.

“Probably. But don’t worry- it won’t be today. I’ll make sure the police and the press stay off your backs. But- Ed, you need to be careful. I mean it. I’m not going to say anything about your…extracurricular activities, but you should stay off the streets, if you can help it. Be on your guard.”

“Fucking hell, I _know,_ ” says Ed, “Jeez. It’s like you think no one’s ever tried to kill me before or something,” and hits Roy in the arm, apparently just because.

“Ouch,” he says, instead of _It’s kind of breaking my heart to think about all the painful things you allude to, because I want nothing more than for you to be safe and happy, which scares me a little because I’ve never felt like that before_ , which is the alternative.

Ed kicks him in the shins. “Everything’s different, now,” he says quietly, and Roy isn’t quite sure what he means.

“Hm?”

He shakes his head. “Nothin’. Doesn’t matter, bastard.” When he looks up again, he’s grinning, bright albeit weary. “You still owe me,” he says, and his smile turns wicked as he presses up on his toes to press his lips against the corner of Roy’s mouth, not sparing him just the edge of teeth. “Don’t forget.”

“How could I forget?” breathes Roy against his mouth, and Ed lets out a bark of laughter before he kisses him.

 

 

Hughes apprehends him in the station parking lot, open the door and climbing inside the car just as Roy turns off the ignition. Ed’s blood is still dried into his backseat; he’s covered it hastily with a blanket in case some well-meaning police officer accidentally looks inside and gets the wrong idea.

“Maes,” says Roy, “what-,”

“Archer’s gone,” interrupts Hughes, glasses catching the light though the windscreen and flashing.

Roy’s brow furrows. “Gone? What do you mean?”

“I mean he’s _gone_. He took all his files and left. His office is empty and apparently he didn’t even tell his staff he was leaving. No one knows where he is.”

“Maybe…he’s ill?”

Maes gives him the _don’t-be-an-idiot_ look, and Roy holds up his hands. “Alright, alright- so he’s not ill. What, then?”

“I don’t _know_ , Roy,” says Maes, taking off his glasses and cleaning them furiously. “But what with everything that’s happened recently- the Scarred Killer, the Homunculi, the Elric brothers… it might be connected. I have a feeling it’s very connected indeed.”

There is a pause. Roy looks around to check no one is around, and leans forward. “I know,” he says, “I think there’s something going on with Bradley.”

Maes raises his eyebrows. “Bradley? As in, head-of-the-whole-goddamn-station Bradley?”

“The very same.”

“…huh. Yeah. Yeah, I can see why you’d…he’s been acting suspiciously, too. Coming and going at odd hours, not letting anyone in to see him, putting you in charge of the Homunculi case.”

“Exactly, I- wait, what?” Roy sits up straighter. “What do you mean, ‘coming and going at odd hours and not letting anyone in to see him’? I haven’t heard anything about that.”

Maes pushes his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “Well, that’s because I haven’t been able to have a proper conversation with you for, what, a day? I only found out this morning- don’t loom so surprised, Roy, you know I have people monitoring everyone and everything. Speaking of, how’s it going with _Ed_? I see you too are…pretty close…”

He opens the door and leaps out of his seat, laughing, before Roy can do anything but gape at him.

“Maes-!”

“What?”

Roy gets out of the car, snatching up his folders. How did he-?  “Have you been having me followed?”

“Of course I have,” says Maes, shaking his head at Roy before starting towards the back entrance, a small skip in his step, “You already knew that.”

“Well, yes, but- I thought- stop laughing!”

“Sorry, sorry…it’s just funny, you know…?”

“It is _not_ funny-,”

 

 

 

Riza is not waiting for him with a stack of paperwork when he and Maes enter the office. She is, in fact, standing in front of his desk with her arms crossed and a no-nonsense expression. Ah. Shit.

“What’s been going on, sir?” She asks, perfectly calm, as he heads towards her, wincing inwardly.

“You mean apart from the terrorist case?” he replies, moving past her to deposit the folders on his desk.

“Yes, sir.” Her tone is not amused. Damn. Well, he’ll just have to keep dodging the question, that’s all.

“I’m afraid I don’t-,”

“No offense, sir,” says Riza, “but please stop trying to bullshit me.”

There is a very long, silent pause in which everyone- _everyone_ \- drops what they’re doing and turns to stare at Riza.  
 She stands cool, collected, and utterly done with Roy’s shit. She is the most intimidating figure Roy has ever seen.

Slowly, he straightens. He meets her eyes, and he can see that behind the _I want answers_ face, she is worried about him. She is worried that something is going on that he hasn’t told her about, and she needs to know these things because, as his oldest friend, it’s her job to look out for him. He feels like…. Like _Ed_ , who keeps things from the ones he loves, refusing until now to reveal anything about his exploits in order to protect Winry from the truth.  
 Not anymore, apparently.

“Very well,” he says, and a few metres away, Havoc is slowly stubbing out his cigarette without taking his eyes off the scene unfolding. “I’ll call a conference this afternoon. Just the people in this room.” Riza, Maes, Havoc, Breda, Feury. His team.

She nods, gratitude flashing in her brown eyes, and turns away. “Thank you, sir,” she says, “and I apologise for the disrespect.”

“Not at all,” he murmurs, sliding into his chair. He trusts his team. If they all know everything, then they can work together to solve it better. It’s not always a good idea to keep people in the dark, Roy knows that. It’s just- it’s annoying to have to tell them all. There’ll be questions.

But still- he wants to get this solved and done with. He wants to flush out the conspiracies and the corruption; above all, he wants to catch the killers before they can hurt anymore people he lo-

Roy stops with his hand half in a drawer. What?

 _People he loves_.

Oh, no.

No way.

No way in _hell_ is he _in love_ with Ed.

 _‘I don’t know what my brother said to you, but I know that he-,’…t_ hat he what? What does Roy even want for Al to say? That Ed’s in love with him?  He said it himself: they’re not dating. There’s nothing remotely romantic about their relationship. Roy Mustang doesn’t fall in love with people, anyway. He just wants to keep Ed safe, that’s all, because he cares about him. Yes. He cares about him, definitely; he doesn’t want to see him hurt, or in pain, or anything other than safe and happy, _sure_. But he’s not I love with him, because that would be….ridiculous. stupid. Impossible.

 He opens the drawer winder, reaches in for the files on the Scarred Killer. But his fingers grasp on…empty air. Nothing. He looks down, pulls the drawer fully open. Where are they? What did he do with them? He put them in here, didn’t he?

_Archer’s gone, he’s taken all his files…_

Maybe Roy’s paranoid. Maybe. He pulls open the other drawers, rifles through unfinished paperwork and age-old reports. He finds a paperclip chain and a rumpled love letter from someone called Denise (how embarrassing, he can’t remember her at all), but the folders have disappeared.

He calls Riza over. “Have you seen the case files for the Scarred Killer at all?” he asks casually, and she frowns.

“Not since you took them, sir,” she says thoughtfully. “Why?”

Closing the drawers still open, Roy curses under his breath. “I think Archer’s taken them,” he says grimly and her frown deepens.

“Why would he take them?”

“I- don’t know,” says Roy, but that’s not entirely true. Why would Archer take them? Because originally, they were _his_ case files. Because Roy’s been asking for the secondary reports. Because Roy’s been searching, digging deeper into the mess of discontinued cases and blacked out lines. Because the Elric brothers are somehow inexplicably mixed up in everything, and the Archer was assigned to the Homunculi case with no explanation; because he’s disappeared without warning, taking all his files with him so why would it be such a stretch to imagine that he’d take the ones he knows Roy’s interested in, too….?

“I’m sure they’ll turn up somewhere,” he says, shrugging, and turns back to his desk. He has to write up a report of what happened yesterday; he’ll need to work out which details to leave in and which to omit. And then he’ll call a meeting and fill in the others before they can submit _their_ reports, and…

“Oh, Riza,” he calls, and she turns back.

“Yes?”

“Wait until after the conference to write up your report for yesterday, would you?” he asks, meeting her eyes. They’re the oldest and strongest of friends; she sees his meaning right away and nods, a small smile tugging at her lips.

“Of course, sir,” she says, “I’ll tell the others.”

“Thank you,” he says, and she inclines her head in reply, before heading towards Havoc and Breda’s desk.

Roy sighs and leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers. Now, then: he’ll leave Ed and Al out of it, for now. He doesn’t need names, anyway: “a civilian” should suffice for now…

He can’t stop thinking about Ed. The damn brat won’t stop invading his brain; the memory of the kiss this morning, the whispered _don’t forget_ …how _could_ he forget? It’s impossible to work when Ed, Ed, Ed is crowding his brain.

He’s said it before, he knows he has. He’s in too deep. He can’t back out now, and that’s a scary thought for someone who _never_ enters into something where there’s no room for a quick escape.

He leans forwards, pulls the blank report towards him, sets his pen to the paper.

(Ed, covered in blood and still as sarcastic as ever; Ed, heavy and drowsy against his chest; Ed, kissing him like nothing in the entire unknown universe; Ed, hair wet and dripping as he strides through Roy’s front door like he owns the place; Ed, locking eyes with Roy, eyes making the very air between them smoulder; Ed, Ed, Ed…)

( _I hope you know what you’re getting into_ )


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N- about four and a half thousand words for this one. Not too bad. Although, like most of the other chapters, this is *really* unedited.....and the plot really doesn't move forwards at all. Nothing interesting happens in this chapter. How did I manage to squeeze 4.5k words out of literally _nothing_....?  
>  Oh, well. Eeeeeeeenjoy :)
> 
> p.s. I have a massive headache. A really really bad one. Anyone know any good headache cures besides water and painkillers? Maybe I just need to sleep...

“…finally, everything you just heard stays strictly between the people present in this room.”

In the deafening silence following Roy’s words, Hawkeye reaches over and plucks the softly smoking cigarette from Havoc’s mouth, and stubs it out on the bottom of her shoe before throwing it with pinpoint accuracy into the bin on the other side of the room. Havoc makes a small sound of distress, but Breda is already leaning forwards to speak.

“Sir,” he says slowly, and Roy, at the head of the conference table, meets his worried eyes calmly, “are you saying that everything- the Homunculi, the Scarred Killer, Director Bradley, Archer- is part of one big conspiracy plan? Because, I don’t know, it seems a little farfetched, even for you.”

Roy nods. He’s been expecting this. “Yes,” he says seriously, “I do. I know it seems as though I’m being paranoid- but in this line of work, who isn’t? My instinct tells me there’s something bigger going on here. Until I compile the proof we need to take this to court, we just have to keep playing along- but keep your eyes and ears open. Our main priority is the Homunculi case, but there’s no reason we can’t keep a look out for any suspicious behaviour in the higher chain of command as well.”

And that settles it. His team has absolute trust in him; they always do. They nod, standing up, and Roy smiles. His team really is the best goddamn team anyone could ask for.

He stands, picking up the folders, and Hawkeye comes to his side as the others disperse. “Sir,” she says, “are you going to interview Edward Elric? For what you said, the Elric brothers are certainly caught up in all of this. Do I take it that we are to trust them? Or are they to be treated with suspicion as well?”

Her brown eyes are steady on his, and Roy swallows. She really does live up to her name; her gaze is piercing and intelligent.

“The Elric brothers are indeed involved,” he says, “and I will be taking statements from them. But I don’t think they’re to be treated with suspicion, no. Actually, I think it would be a good idea to include them in this.”

Her eyebrows rise slowly. “Include the? But, sir- they’re civilians-,”

“Civilians who have already aided us in more ways than one,” he reminds her. “You were there when Alphonse saved our lives in the warehouse. And Edward has had direct contact with the group. I intend to use them to our advantage.”

There. Perfect. He’s told her everything without betraying any of the…affection…he feels for Ed. Oh, god, he feels affection for Ed, oh _god_ …

Hawkeye is looking at him with her brow slightly furrowed. Slowly, the edges of a smile tug on her lips. “Very well, sir,” she says, turning away. “I expect you’ll be interviewing him yourself, then?”

Wait, what? “- yes, of course.”

“Then I’ll leave you to organise it, sir,” she says, brushing a strand of hair out of her face. “And take some time for yourself while you’re at it. You’re welcome to take as lon as you like, you know, sir,” she says quietly, “I know you’re still worried about him.”

What? “…thank you, Riza.”

She inclines her head and moves away, as poised as ever. Roy sits slowly back in his chair, aching shoulders flexing against the back. He needs a massage.

But more importantly- Riza. Does she know? Has she seen through him? _What_?

Roy shakes his head. Of course she knows- this is _Riza_ he’s talking about. But she doesn’t seem to disapprove, and she hasn’t said anything, which she would if she was actually worried. They’ve known each other for- what, twenty years? More or less. If Roy isn’t _very_ much mistaken, she’s…giving him permission.

He brushes his hands over his trouser legs, smoothing out the creases. Sighs, slowly. What else is there to do but keep moving? There are files to sort and conclusions to draw; Ed needs to sleep and while Roy feels so strangely protective of him, he can’t be at his side every second of the day…no matter how he wishes he could.

Dangerous thoughts. Stupid, dangerous, destructive thoughts; he needs to clear his head and get some decent fucking coffee before his brain explodes. And he needs to _stop thinking about Ed,_ the little _brat_.

 

***

 

Ed dreams of blood.

 Blood and shadows and the screeching, tearing rending shriek of metal, the crunch of the door and pain explodes behind his left knee; his arm is caught in something and something is covering his eyes; matter how much he shakes his head, whips it wildly from side to side he can’t seem to shake it and Al is in the backseat _screaming_ -

-Roy’s voice, next to his ear, “ _you’re not allowed to die. You’re not allowed to die.”_ Burning, fire, flames licking his chest and Roy’s hands are pinning him down and the car is careening off the road; with a wet crunching noise something hits his shoulder and the darkness clears from his eyes-

-Roy, lifeless and blank-faced is lolling doll-like against his shoulder. There’s so much blood. There’s so much blood. It’s all over him, cloying and sickly and copper-tasting, crusted into Roy’s hair-

-the back of Roy’s head is caved in like a smashed melon and Al says very loudly, “ _We need to cauterise it.”_

 

Ed opens his eyes to darkness and the pounding thunder of his own heart. Everything is very, very silent. Sweat sticks to the back of his shirt as he sits up slowly, pushing the tangled sheets off of himself. Breathing heavily, he drags the back of his hand across his forehead, closing his eyes.

Shit. Is this ever going to stop? Every night; every fucking night, and this time it’s _worse_ because there’s so much more shit now, there’s so much more…

And the image of Roy, lifeless and sticky with red, red blood, shards of skull glistening wetly in the strange orange light-

Ed heaves himself upright, stumbles out of the bed and onto the floor to press his forehead against the cool wood of the bedside table. Oh, god. Breathe, you fucking idiot, he commands himself, and squeezes his eyes tight shut again.

“Fuck,” he croaks out, and his mouth is dry as hell. Water. He pulls himself to his feet, leans heavily on the window sill. The curtains are drawn, which gives the room its weird half-darkness, but he can tell it’s not night yet. How long has he been asleep? His phone is plugged in, lying on the bedside table. He picks it up and turns it on; the time flashes up on the screen. 2:37 pm. Saturday 25th November. Well, at least it’s his fucking day off.

Clutching his phone in one hand, he shuffles towards the door, opening it and peering into the lounge. Winry’s suitcase is leaning against the door to the hall; he can hear her and Al talking in the kitchen.

“Brother!” Exclaims Al when he limps into the room, scowling. Winry is sitting on the counter, since they don’t have any chairs, swinging her legs absently, a chipped mug in her hands. She eyes him sceptically, but he’s too fucking tired to start an argument.

“Water,” he manages, “coffee.” Al, being the most perfect, amazing little brother anyone could ever hope to have, is already there, nudging a glass into Ed’s hand.

“Painkillers,” he adds, balancing the packet on top of the phone in Ed’s other hand. His scowl intensifies, and he drains the glass of water.

“ _God_ ,” he says, thumping his head back against the wall, “my head is fucking _killing me_.”

“You might want to stop hitting against walls, then,” remarks Winry, and he flips her off weakly.

“Pathetic,” she mutters, and turns back to Al. “Anyway, like I was saying- he’s awfully polite, isn’t he? You sure Ed’s good enough for him?”

“I don’t know,” muses Al, and that fucking cat is leaping into his arms again. “Maybe Ed needs to stop swearing so much.”

Wait. What? “Huh?”

Winry rolls her eyes. “You’re such a dummy,” she says, taking a sip of whatever is in her mug. Knowing Winry, it’s probably poison that’s she’s drinking diluted with some other malicious liquid in order to build up a resilience. “It can’t take _him_ this long to catch up to things; he’s a detective.”

“I’m fucking _injured_ -,” starts Ed, and stops. “Wait- what do you mean _he’s a detective?_ Who are you talking about?”

“Detective Mustang, of course,” says Al, and Snooky meows loudly.

 _What_? “ _Why_?” Ed asks, pausing in the act of climbing onto the counter to reach the mugs.

“Get down from there brother, you’ll hurt yourself-,” Al shoos Ed down from the ledge and Winry smirks.

“Mm, yeah,” she says lightly, “I have to say, I underestimated him. It was sweet of him to check in to see if Ed was okay, don’t you think?”

Al pushes the mug into Ed’s hands. “Oh, yes,” he agrees, “he was very polite too- brother, you’re going to spill the coffee everywhere-,”

“What do you mean he _checked in_?” Asks Ed, staring bewildered at Winry, who shrugs, jumping down from the counter to put her mug in the sink.

“That was really nice tea, Al,” she says, and Ed puts his own mug on the side. Al makes a little _tsk_ noise, and Winry is _almost_ smiling now.

“What the fuck do you _mean_?” he asks again, and Winry blows out a long breath, whirling round to plant her hands on her hips.

“ _Jeez_ , Ed, you don’t have to be so _loud_ ,” she says, “we were just talking about how your boyfriend came over, like, an hour ago while you were asleep to see if you were alright, that’s all…”

“he _what?!”_ The pack of pain pills makes a little rattling noise as it hits the floor, and Al’s disapproving _tch_ noise reaches new levels of disappointment.

 _“_ Yes, brother, the Detective came round,” says Al, and stares meaningfully at the painkillers until Ed picks them up.

“he- what a- why- did he- was a bastard?”

“I don’t think it’s possibly to detect outward signs of unmarried parentage,” says Al thoughtfully, “and if it is, I don’t know how to, so I can’t really answer that question…”

“Quit being a smartass and answer your big brother!”

“Honestly, Ed, I thought you said you were _injured_. Maybe you should go to volume control classes…?”

“He didn’t say anything overly sarcastic, if that’s what you’re asking,” says Al, and Ed leans heavily against the wall. Roy had come over while he was asleep? Why?

“Did he…say _anything_?”

“He asked how you were,” says Winry, moving past Ed to collect her shoes from the shoe rack Al insisted they buy a month ago. “right, I’, going out, then. Where did you say the store with the cute cashier was, Al?”

“it’s just down the road; her name’s Rose and…”

Ed resists the urge to thump his head back against the wall again. His eyes, already, want to slide shut and he pops two pills from the packet on the side and swallows them dry. He takes a long sip from the mug Al bestowed on him- and almost fucking chokes.

“What the fuck is _this_?”

“Tea, brother,” calls Al from the other room, where he’s giving Winry directions to the grocery store where Rose works. Ed remembers her. “it’s _good_ for you.”

“It tastes like  dishwater!”

“ _Healthy_ dishwater.”

“Dishwater isn’t for human consumption.”

“Good thing it’s not actually dishwater then, isn’t it, brother.”

Ed stares distrustfully into the murky liquid, and sets the mug back on the side. He’s so _fucking_  tired, but if he goes to sleep-

He doesn’t want to dream that again. He never does. But his own subconscious hates him, and every time he closes his eyes he sees it…

 _Keep moving forward_.

He stumbles back into the bedroom, throws his phone back onto the bedside table. The sheets are still damp with sweat but he doesn’t care, can’t care; the room is swimming before his eyes…

Vaguely, Ed hears the front door close. Al comes into the room, sets a glass of water on the table. “Sleep well, brother,” he says quietly, and Ed makes an unintelligible noise in reply. He won’t go to sleep, no way. He has stuff to do. He’ll get up in a minute. Just- half an hour, that’s all. And then he’ll get up, and go do….whatever….

Al closes the door softly behind himself and the light dims.

Ed fights it, for a moment, as he always does. But the endless drag of sleep is overpowering, and he succumbs within minutes. Maybe this time, he won’t dream of blood and death and the sick, sharp sound of Al’s screams. Maybe.

 

***

 

The next time Ed wakes up, Roy is there, but he takes a while to register this fact because it takes some time for him to gulp down enough air to stop himself suffocating.

“Ed, Ed, it’s okay,”

Drenched in sweat and wild-eyed, Ed stares at Roy as if he’s an alien for s second, before his eyes clear and slowly, he slumps back against the pillows, dragging a shaky hair over his eyes.

“…sorry,” he mutters, and Roy almost collapses with relief.

“Don’t be,” he says quietly, “I know what it’s like to have nightmares.”

Ed laughs, short and sharp and bitter. “Nightmares,” he says, “night-terrors, bad dreams, yeah you could call it that. It all comes down my _fucking_ messed-up brain, in the end-,”

“Ed, _breathe_ ,” commands Roy, gripping d’s shoulders, “you’re panicking.”

“I am _not_ fucking _panicking_ -,”

“Good. So breathe.”

“I- _am_ -,”

There is silence for a few minutes, and two sets of breathing. Then Ed shakes his head, thumps his head back against the headboard.

“Shit,” he says, very quietly. Roy sits down slowly on the bed next to him, and Ed eyes him for a second before heaving himself into a sitting position too, drawing his knees up to his chest and folding his arms around them.

“Do you want to talk about it?” asks Roy, uncertainly, and Ed lets out a short bark of laughter.

“I don’t think you’d be able to handle the fucked up shit I got locked up in my head,” he says, raising a hand to tap his temple meaningfully. Roy pretends not to notice that he’s shaking.

“I was in Afghanistan for four months before I was deported back to the US after I was shot in the stomach,” he says, after a while, and Ed stiffens beside him.

“In those four months, I had to kill quite a few innocent people,” Roy continues, and though he keeps his voice light, it is a _hell_ of a struggle. “A lot of people think they know what’s it’s like, being on the front. Watching your bullets kill people. Watching them fall to the floor. They’re wrong, most of the time. I threw up after the first time,” he says, looking down at his hands, “I’d never killed anyone before, and the way they just _died_ …humans are fragile, I guess. It was different after that. Like something out of a movie. Slow-motion and blurs, and I tell myself that I had to do it, that it was us or them, but that’s not true. I could have- saved them. Could have spared their lives….”

“You were just following orders,” says Ed, roughly, looking up at him, and Roy laughs humourlessly.

“Sure, maybe,” he says, “I was just following orders. I still _chose_ to kill those people. I don’t think I even knew the cause of the war. I don’t think any of us did. When I was shot…part of me was just so fucking _relieved_ , you know? Like maybe this was my repentance. I’d done _so much_ wrong, it didn’t make any sense for me to just keep going…

“But the doctors were better than I deserved. I woke up in hospital on a shit-ton of pain killers and the first thing I thought was _maybe everything was just a dream_. Just a nightmare. It wasn’t, of course, but I wish it was.

“That’s just cowardly, though. This is my punishment, and I can’t argue with that. I killed all those people, o now I have to live with it. I became a detective so I could have a chance to stop crimes, to stop things like that happening again…but I don’t have that kind of power. It’s just the constant guilt, and the dreams are just another piece of justice.”

Roy stops speaking, and his mouth is very dry. Who has he ever said that to before? Not Maes. Not Riza. Not the fucking psychiatrist they referred him to when he left the hospital. As far as he knows, not anyone. He is very aware of Ed shifting beside him.

“That,” says Ed very calmly, “is fucking ridiculous.”

….which is possibly the last thing Roy would have expected anyone to say, except this is Edward Elric sitting beside him, so he should’ve known that all bets are off.

“I- what?”

“I _said_ ,” grouches Ed, releasing his knees and turning to shove Roy’s shoulder, _hard_ , “That that is _fucking ridiculous_.”

“And would you mind elaborating on you came to that remarkably well-researched opi- _wha_ -!”

This time, Ed’s shove nearly sends him flying off the bed, and he only just regains his balance.

“Yes,” says Ed, when he’s back on level footing (level sitting? You know what, never mind; it’s far too early on a Sunday morning to be worrying about his own internal monologue’s handling of idioms), “My _remarkably well-researched opinion_ is that what you just said is fucking ridiculous, because it _wasn’t you fault_. No- don’t even fuckin’ say anything, Mustang; you woke me up, I get to say this, alright?”

Roy’s _technically, you woke yourself up by having a nightmare_ , is cut short.

“I know a thing or two about guilt. Okay? I know what it’s like to go through fuckin’ _decades_ of your life blaming yourself for shit. And I know the fuckin’ statistics for veteran suicide rates. The army is fucked up. The people who command armies are just part of a goddamn fuckin’ system, and they’re doin’ the best they can, except the ones that aren’t, but we’re not going to talk about them, we’re going to talk about how you were _just following orders_ , and you were in the middle of a goddamn warzone, and- and you’re fucking _sorry_ about it and for fuck’s _sake_ , of course it was you or them! When you’re in a fight and you’re _this close_ to death or injury or whatever; when you’re fuckin’ scared out of your mind and you can’t fucking think straight of fucking _course_ you’re going to defend yourself! It’s fuckin’ science: your brain goes into meltdown mode, your fight or flight instincts take over and you start pullin’ triggers like your life depends on it because it _does_.”

Ed pauses for breath, and seems to realise that his voice has risen to a shout. He swallows. Roy swallows.

“So just. Stop bein’ a fucking dumbass, Roy.” He mutters, and throws himself back down onto the pillows with a wince and a _flump_.

Roy clears his throat, carefully. “You should be a motivational speaker,” he says, and Ed meets his eyes with a _furious_ glare and yanks him down to drag him into a kiss.

When they pull apart, Roy is pretty sure he’s bleeding in at least two places; he probes his lip gingerly with his tongue as Ed retreats back under the covers, bright red.

“We really need to stop doing that when you’re injured,”  Roy remarks, and, predictably, a hissed _fuck you_ floats up to greet his ears from beneath the sheets.

Roy catches himself smiling and berates himself for letting his guard down like that. Ed doesn’t _want_ a relationship; Roy would respect that. Although what he’s supposed to do when Ed keeps jumping him like that, Roy has no idea…

****

“Why are you here, anyway?”

They’re both sitting on the bed- except Ed is curled in a bundle underneath all the duvet, and Roy is resting on the empty space next to him. He raises an eyebrow, hands warm around one of the mugs of tea Alphonse bestowed on them five minutes ago. Ed’s mug is on the windowsill, being ignored.

“I’m supposed to be interviewing you,” says Roy, and takes a sip. It’s nice tea; minty and fresh and probably very healthy. Ed curls his (rather red) lip distastefully at the offending beverage, and rolls his shoulders beneath his blanket nest.

“Ah, shit, yeah I’d forgotten about that,” he says, looking up idly at the ceiling, “you wanna ask me question or whatever?”

“If you feel up to it.”

“’M not _five_ , Roy,” says Ed, narrowing his eyes at him, “Pretty sure I can answer a few fuckin’ questions. ‘Sides, you need ‘em for your investigation, don’t you?”

“Well, yes,” says Roy, “but I was planning on waiting until you’re healed before getting your statement.”

“I’m fucking _fine_ , how many times do I have to say it?” Ed snaps, and settles lower on the mattress, sighing. “Jeez…you need an account, right? Like, you need me to tell you what happened?”

Roy leans over to put his mug on the bedside table. “Basically, yes.”

Ed stretches, yawns. “Then let’s get this fuckin’ show on the road,” he says, the familiar determination sparking in his eyes.

 

***

 

When Ed falls silent, Roy doesn’t want to move. Actually, no,  that’s a lie; he _does_ want to move, but only to grab Ed and hug him very, very tightly. And never, ever let go.

Instead, he reaches forwards and presses stop on the recording machine. Ed is looking faux-casually at the ceiling again. Roy aches to touch him, to hold him.

“It’s weird, though,” says Ed suddenly, “there are parts that don’t really make any sense. Like when Gluttony jumped me. It was like, I couldn’t even defend myself; he could’ve beaten me to a fuckin’ pulp but he just got in a few good punches until I fell unconscious.”

 _Got in a few good punches_. Roy’s seen the wounds, the bruises and scrapes and cuts- and now _burns_ \- peppering Ed’s body. A few good punches.

“And that Lust chick,” continues Ed, “in that town, village, whatever- she just walked away. I’d just fucking- _stabbed_ her sidekick, her _friend_ , and she just walked away. I don’t- I don’t get it.”

The very slight break in his voice is what makes Roy look up. The hesitation before Ed had said _stabbed_ , spat it out like it was a curse word. Oh, Ed.

“This- Envy. Ed, they were trying to _kill_ you.”

“Hypocrite,” murmurs Ed, and closes his eyes.

“Ed…this is different. This was _self defence_. You almost died- and forgive me if this seems strange to you, but if you hadn’t killed Envy, _I_ would have, if Al didn’t get there first. And you know it.”

Ed doesn’t open his eyes. Roy leans forwards; Ed has to understand _this_ ; and if it makes Roy a hypocrite, then _fine_ , he doesn’t care; Ed cannot blame himself for _this_ …

He takes Ed’s face in his hands; Ed stiffens then relaxes; his eyelids flutter. “Ed,” says Roy, quietly, seriously, “you can’t blame yourself for this. The guy was going to murder you. If you hadn’t stopped them, they would’ve killed you. And then what would have happened? From what you said, they needed someone intelligent, yes? Ed, if you hadn’t stopped Envy, they would’ve gone after Al. If anything else, you did this to save Al; to save the countless other people they would’ve killed. You can’t blame yourself for _justice_.”

Ed opens his eyes at the mention of Al’s name, and the gold in them is duller than Roy’s ever seen it before. All the same, he nods, slowly. “Al,” he says, and this close, Roy can see the weight of the exhaustion on his face. “I- okay.”

Roy is still cupping his face. Gently, he sweeps his thumbs back and forth over Ed’s cheeks, careful to avoid the slashes and bruises there, and Ed leans into his touch, eyes sliding shut again, eyelashes whispering over his skin.

 _I’m in love with him_.

The thought is very, very clear in Roy’s mind, and he almost falters. _I’m in love with him_. _I have been for a long time, now- or as long as it could be, considering how short a time I’ve known him._

Edward Elric. Gold and silver; Ed is wearing a shirt with the sleeves rolled up and he can see the automail glinting in the light, the fake-flesh cover having been discarded, or perhaps destroyed.

 _I’m in love with him._ Ed makes a small noise; he leans up, hooking his fingers loosely in Roy’s collar. His lips are chapped, in places bloody, and he tastes of copper and coffee. His pulse beats steadily underneath his skin, and Roy is so, so grateful for this. Just this. Ed, and the daylight through the thin curtains, and the heartbeat strong in his chest.

Ed tugs him down, mumbling unintelligibly, and pulls a corner of the sheet out of his blanket nest, throwing it over Roy with impressive aim, considering his state. Roy lies next to him, and ed’s hands dance at his waistband.

“Déjà vu,” says Roy into his mouth, and, gently but firmly, pushes away Ed’s wandering hands. “Not tonight, Ed.”

Ed makes a noise of great discontent, and Roy laughs quietly. “Come here,” he says, “you haven’t slept well in weeks- don’t try to tell me you have, Ed, I know.” He tugs a little at Ed’s shirt until he gets the idea and curls himself against Roy’s body.

“How d’you know ‘f this’s gonna make me sleep well?” Asks Ed through a yawn, “’S a load ‘f bullshit…stupid mushy romantic crap like Al reads…”

Roy rolls his eyes. “The evidence is against you, Ed,” he says, “and besides, it’s worked before.”

“….’ck you.”

Ed buries his head under Roy’s chin, lying half on top of him somewhere in the mess of blankets. Roy stifles his own yawn; Ed sighs, shifts, and finally settles. Asleep.

 _I’m in love with him_. Yes. Yes, Roy’s in love with him.   
Which could be exceptionally dangerous, considering Roy’s habit of pushing away anyone who gets close enough to see underneath his masks and his various personas, but- he’s already told Ed…everything. Everything important. And Ed wasn’t even remotely worried. Roy’s told more truths in the last two hours to one person than he’s ever told anyone in his _life_ , and while that’s not something he’s proud of, or even _comfortable_ with, he knows that Ames would tell him it’s progress.

But all his secrets. All his guilt. It could ruin him. Ed could systematically _destroy_ him with that kind of information; this is too big of a risk and Roy never should’ve-

Ed nuzzles closer, makes a small noise of contentment, and goes quiet again. Roy’s an idiot. This is Ed he’s taking about. It’s not in Ed’s nature to be purposefully cruel to someone- to _anyone_. He closes his eyes. Does it even matter if Ed reciprocates the affection Roy feels for him? Probably not. Just this, is enough. Just to know that Ed’s safe, now, is enough. HE won’t pursue n=anything. He can’t risk losing what they have, so strange and fragile it seems to be. He can’t risk hurting Ed, pushing him away. More than anything, he’s afraid of what will happen when Ed turns him down.

Another day, another night, gone. Time is running out. The deadline is drawing closer- but what and when, Roy doesn’t know yet. And right now, right now…he doesn’t mind. He just sinks back into the pillows, and follows Ed into sleep. There’s still time left. Now is for treasuring what they have. Now is for sleep.


	14. Too hot, hot damn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ed steals a motorbike.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N- happy Easter! Hope y'all ate a metric fuckton of chocolate, you deserve it <3 (unless you don't celebrate Easter, or don't eat chocolate, in which case I hope you had a really great day regardless)  
> so this is the new chapter, and hopefully I'll manage to post another one at some point this week, since i'm on easter break at the moment. (But we all know by now that I am TERRIBLE at keeping to a posting schedule.)
> 
> -the chapter title is supposed to be a joke and i suck because i'm not funny  
> -unbeta'd  
> -unedited (oops)  
> -was written while listening to 'pocketful of sunshine' on rEPEaT FOR THrEE HoURs JESUS H FU CK  
> -someone told tierfal about this!!! and she said she was gonna read it!!! and i cried!!! because i was too scared to like send her a message or whatever on tumblr and now she knows that this exists and oh my god what if she hates it??? what if she hates me?????? I'M SORRY TIERFAL I LOVE YOU

 

It had been  _so difficult_ to pry himself from Ed's bed this morning, especially considering the fact that Ed had been curled into him, breath warm against his throat when he'd woken. He hadn't meant to stay the night, he honestly hadn't. But as it always was with Ed, Roy's brain had short-circuited so he really couldn't be blamed for forgetting all his responsibilities...

The clock on his desk is ticking. Reminding him of how annoying time is, how it just  _keeps going_ , regardless of how much you try to get it to stop. Roy hates that, hates not being able to influence it, even in the slightest. After all, that's pretty much all he  _does_ : manipulate things. 

Manipulate things and write reports, anyway. He is reminded of this by the incessant blinking of the cursor on the screen in front of him, by the incessant blinking of the light on the recording machine on the desk.

(He's not manipulating Ed, is he? He can't help but be terrified of the prospect of unconsciously  _using_ someone, especially someone like Ed, who, he is beginning to learn, is incredibly steadfast in his morals.)

 

These are the facts. Look at the paper. Look at the recorder; stare at it like you’re trying to bore a hole in it with your eyes. Listen closely. These are the facts. This is what we know.

Roy drags a hand through his hair, and Maes glances over at him, concern sparking behind his glasses.

“Okay,” says Roy to himself, “okay. What do we know. We know that the Homunculi are the ones who destroyed the Underworld nightclub. We know that the Homunculi have so far been responsible for the deaths of at least twenty hostages and research scientists. They’ve also destroyed research laboratories all over the country and famous libraries, all of which have a connection with research done on artificial life. We also believe them to be connected with the Scarred Killer, a religious fanatic responsible for the deaths of scientific research centres focused on the same thing.”  
He taps his laptop keyboard thoughtfully; he’s exactly one sentence into his report and is coming up blank with what to say next.

“What about the Elric brothers?”

Maes’ voice comes from directly behind his ear; only the fact that every cell of Roy’s body is alert means he doesn’t jump out of is skin. Slowly, he closes his eyes, and opens them again.

“What about them?” He replies, smoothly. Maes leans against his desk, puts his finger to his chin a mock thinking pose.

“Hmm, I don’t know, maybe because they’ve been involved in every way possible?”

Roy grits his teeth. “I’ve already told you; I’m keeping them out of this. ‘Unnamed civilians’ will suffice-,”

“Oh, I’m not talking about the _report_ ,” says Maes, “I mean in _real life_. Are we going to hire them? Bring them in? Stop them from having any sort of involvement from here on out? Ask them for advice?”

This is too much to be thinking about. Roy doesn’t need these problems; he needs to finish his report and give it to Bradley to deter suspicion and keep his record stellar-

“I’ll speak to them,” he says, keeping his voice steady and light, “I’m sure they’d rather not be involved further, after everything that’s happened, so we should respect those wishes.”

“And if that’s not what they want? If they want to be involved?”

Roy stares at the blinking cursor on the screen. “I’ll talk to them,” he repeats, and Maes sighs, pushing off the desk.

“Alright,” he says, raising his hands in an ‘I surrender’ gesture.  “You know what you’re doing, I suppose.”

He walks away, and Roy starts to drum his fingers on the keyboard again. _That’s the thing, Maes,_ he thinks. _I really, really don’t_.

 

***

If Ed hadn’t been beat up by the Homunculi, he’d have been at work by now. Actually, considering the day, he’d have been at the lab already, checking up on his experiments and arguing with Izumi.  
  
If Ed hadn’t been beaten up by the Homunculi, he’d have been in the lab, and would almost certainly have died in the explosion that occurred at approximately ten past nine that morning.

So really, he should be grateful that they did beat him up- saved his life, in a roundabout way. But somehow, as Al taps his foot nervously against the floor, phone pressed against his ear as he waits (prays) for Izumi to pick up, Ed can’t find it in himself to be thankful.

It happened at ten past nine. The windows shattered inwards as the explosion rocked the city, and Ed jerked upright, gasping amidst the broken glass. Roy, gone. His bed, still warm. There were screams, and this time, they weren’t in his head.

Funny how even with half their team gone, the Homunculi _still_ found a way to rig the Curtis Laboratories with enough IEDs to destroy a small city.

 

There’s glass _everywhere_ \- Ed’s feet are pretty fuckin’ torn up already and this isn’t helping at all, but he still staggers out of bed and into the next room as the shards pierce his soles. Al stumbles in from the other room, wild eyed, but unhurt.

“What the _fuck_ was that?” Ed coughs out, and Al shakes his head, hurrying to the window. Winry walks in, eyes wide.

"What the hell is going on?" she asks, voice still groggy with sleep, "Was that-?"

“There’s been an explosion,” Al says, and Ed rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, no shit,” he says, gripping the window sill. Outside, people are running out of their houses and apartments to stare around them in disbelief; a cloud of smoke is slowly rising from-

“The lab,” says Ed, suddenly, and Al turns to look at him.

“What?” He asks, but Ed is already shoving his feet into his shoes and yanking a hoodie over his head.

"Whoa, whoa," says Winry shrilly, "Where are you going?"

“The _lab_ ,” he repeats, and Al follows him out of the door, caught up in his urgency, “the- fuck- the homunculi are targeting research labs- why didn’t I fucking _think_ \- the lab is in that direction-,”

“Shit,” says Al, pulling out his phone, and starts dialling. From the window, Winry throws up her hands in an 'I give up' gesture. She moves to put on her shoes, too, but Ed stops her. "Winry, please," he says, "just stay here." She narrows her eyes at him, and opens her mouth to speak, but falters when she sees his expression. 

"Win," he says, "You don't know this city, you'll get hurt- I know you can defend yourself. I know you're not helpless. Just _trust me_ and please, please just _stay here_."  
She holds his gaze for five unbearable seconds, in which Ed can feel his muscles shaking; there's no _time_ -

"....Fine," she says, at last, "I'll wait here. But- you better come back, alright?" 

"I promise," he says, and she nods slowly, folding her arms. 

"Good."

 

"No answer," curses Al, pulling his phone away from his ear and staring at Ed with wide, fearful eyes. Ed grabs his arm, pulls him into the hall.

“The sooner we get there, the better,” he says, and they run. They take the stairs faster than is strictly safe, jumping the last five and sprinting out onto the street. The girl and her boyfriend who live in the apartment a few doors down from them are already outside; they turn to look at the two brothers, white faced.

“What’s going on?” Asks the guy, and the girl steps forwards, clutching her arms around her body against the cold.

“Is it that terrorist group?”

Ed looks at them blankly for a second- they’re _in the way_ , and Al grabs his arm.

“She’s not picking up,” he says, and Ed snaps out of it.

“Fuck,” he says, “ _fuck_ , okay, let’s go. Give me your phone.”

Al hands it over without complaint, and Ed dials as he runs. Good thing he memorised the number, right?

A motorbike is leaning against the wall around the side of the apartment block; a little battered but still a good model. Ed turns to the neighbours. 

"That your bike?" The boy shakes his head, dumbfounded, and Ed swears. Fine, whatever. He'll just do it the old fashioned way. He's an old hand at this, after all- it takes about a minute and he's done, folding the knife back into his pocket. 

"Quicker than running," he says in reply to Al's disapproving look, swinging his leg over the bike. "I'll give it back, get on."  
Al climbs on behind him and he guns the engine; forget fucking helmets. Phone pressed against his ear, he steers the bike one handed, roaring out onto the road, adrenaline shocking through his system. 

"Come on, come on," he mutters, eyes fixed on the road; why isn't he picking up-?

_“Roy Mustang speaking-,”_

“It’s me,” says Ed, gulping down air, the wind whistling in his ears. “There’s been another attack by the Homunculi, at the lab I work at-,”

“ _Ed? What- are you talking about Curtis Labs?”_

“ _Yes_ ,” says Ed impatiently, and leans forward on the bike, narrowly avoiding a car. Fucking _hell_ , his everything hurts. “My- Izumi Curtis, she’s the head of the lab, she’s not answering her phone, I need-,”

“ _We’re already there,”_ says Roy, and without any hesitation whatsoever, “ _Do you want a lift?”_

God fucking bless this man; Ed feels something in his chest _swell_. “No- we’re almost there, is it-,”

“ _It’s fine. I’ll make sure no one stops you.”_

“-Thank you.” He means it.

“ _Thank me when we arrest the fuckers,”_ replies Roy, and Ed- this really _isn’t_ the time to be thinking about how sexy it is when Roy swears, is it? “ _This is the least I can do.”_

Ed’s grin is thin and sharp, and they’re nearly there; only a few more blocks to go, “I’ll keep it in mind.”

He hangs up, passes the phone to Al, and grips the handlebars with both hands. Okay. Time to _really_ break the speed limit. He guns it, accelerating rapidly, and the bike _roars_. They weave through traffic, riding on the pavement at points and Ed's missed this, he's really fucking missed this. The wind tears at his hoodie; some balding driver leans out of his car window to swear at them as Ed just barely avoids colliding with his wing mirrors. Nearly there. They skid round a corner, turning sharply through an alleyway and exiting onto a roundabout. Several angry drivers later, they're over the roundabout and speeding up the street; Ed's veins are made of liquid energy. Al's arms tighten around him momentarily as he swerves to avoid a woman walking a dog, and finally, finally, the lab is up ahead, partially obscured by a mass of people already crowding in front of it.

They screech to halt, and Ed nearly trips as he gets off the bike, stumbling forwards and regaining his footing, breaking into a run. Al is right beside him as they enter the crowd; all he can see of the building is a huge cloud of smoke. They both crane their necks to see the damage, shoving people out of the way as they shoulder their way through the crowd. Finally, finally- Ed ducks past some open-mouthed guy with no shirt on, and stares up at the lab building. Or, at least, what's left of it.

His pulse stutters, thick and heavy in his throat, and beside him, Al whispers “ _fuck_.”

The building is _gone_ ; all that’s left is fucking rubble and _flames_ , firefighters are extinguishing the worst parts and Ed recognises the blonde woman from Roy’s team commanding people to back away from the yellow tape. Hands shaking, Ed lifts the tape and ducks under it, running forward; he spots Roy standing a little way away, flames dancing over his pale skin.

Ed’s throat constricts as Roy turns and sees him, eyes widening for a second.

“Ed,” he says when Ed reaches him, “we’re looking for survivors now, it won’t be long until-,”

“Until we know if she’s dead or alive?” asks Ed, staring at the lab, and anger is twisting his guts into a tight knot. Beside him, Al takes his arm.

“Brother,” he says quietly, and turns to Roy. “What about the culprits?” he asks calmly, “Are you certain this is a Homunculi attack?”

Roy casts Ed a concerned look before looking to Al. “…Yes. They left a -message.”

There’s something in his tone that makes Ed tear his eyes away from the steaming rubble of Izumi’s- of _their-_ lab. “What message?” he asks, and Roy hesitates.

“It’s…one of the assistants was killed. They… carved the words ‘we are the homunculi’ into her skin.”

 

Ed stares at him, uncomprehending, for a second. Then his face drains of colour and his eyes widen, horrified, before narrowing as _rage_ fills his face. He opens his mouth, and Al steps forwards, grabbing his arm. 

“Brother,” he says, “don’t-,”

“Who was it?” Asks Ed, visibly shaking, “which assistant?”

Roy feels a deep sense of _oh god no_ well in his chest; of course, Ed works- worked- here. He would know them. “Ed,” he says, “I’m sorry-,”

“ _Who was it_?”

The fire reflected in Ed’s eyes flares, and Roy swallows. “We’ve identified her as Lydia Savage.”

There is a moment of deafening silence that seems to exist only in a bubble between the three of them. The background noises; the hiss of the firefighter’s hoses, the excited crowd, the click of camera phones: everything fades behind the brilliant gold of Ed’s eyes.

Slowly, Ed lowers his head. His hair slips forwards, shielding his eyes, as his hands clench into fists. Al takes a deep breath.

“Ed,” he says, “I know what you’re thinking. You can’t-,”

Ed shakes Al’s arm off and straightens. He fixes Roy with a glare that sends a prickle of unease all the way down his spine, and says, “Have you got people looking for the Homunculi?”

Roy nods. “Yes. The regular police got here just before we did; they dispatched a team-,”

“Cool,” says Ed, and then he’s gone.

“Brother-!” Al is a millisecond too late; his hands close on empty air and Ed disappears into the shadows, darting down a side street like a ghost. Roy’s simultaneous cry of “No-!” does not reach him; he turns to look helplessly at Al as the heat buffets them in waves.

 “He’s gone after them,” Al says grimly, and his hands, too, are in fists. Suddenly, Roy is reminded that Al is just barely eighteen. His face is taut as he stares in the direction Ed left in, “I _hate_ it when he does this-,”

“I’ll look for him,” says Roy, “you stay here- you have your friend to worry about don’t you?” He avoids looking towards the burning house; he avoids looking towards the tented area swarming with forensic scientists. Al nods, teeth gritted. He pulls his phone out from his pocket, illuminating his face.

“You’re right,” he says, exhaling slowly, “I doubt they’re still here anyway, with all the police around they’re not stupid enough to stay for long. Brother just needs to feel as though he’s _doing_ something, you know?”

“I know,” says Roy, almost without thinking, and Al manages a smile.

“Don’t worry about going to look for him,” he says, “I’ve put new trackers in his shoes anyway, so I can see where he is.” He holds up his phone, and Roy nods.

“….Right. Of course.” He says, and Al gestures to where Riza is standing patiently by the white tent covering Lydia Savage’s remains.

“It looks like you’re needed. I won’t trouble you anymore; you have enough on your plate without worrying about brother as well.” He looks over at the ambulance, face set. “I’ll go wait over there.”

“Right,” repeats Roy, and glances at Riza. She inclines her head at him, and he clears his throat. “Yes,” he says, “they’ll bring anyone they find to the ambulance, so you can stay there and look for your friend. You have medical training, don’t you? I’m sure they’d appreciate the help.”

“Thank you, I will,” says Al, and starts over. Mid-step, he pauses and turns back. “I’m sorry for causing you so much trouble.”

“You’re not causing anyone trouble,” says Roy, shaking his head, and he means it. Ed, on the other hand….

Apparently Al can read minds, because he laughs darkly. “I might not be, but my brother sure is. When he gets back, I’m not letting him leave the apartment ever again.”

 

***

 

The smoke is thicker here, in the darkness of the side street. His feet pound on the gravelly floor, and his heartbeat is burning through his chest. Biologically implausible, maybe, but Ed’s always been an odd one out, with the shittiest of shitty luck on top of it.

His breath comes harsh through his throat, and he stumbles, choking. His bruises flare, his skin itches, his eyes water. Lydia Savage.

Ed remembers her, in a vague sort of way. Kind of frail-looking, with brown hair; she’d always been really careful when she was carrying the test tubes. The only reason he even knew her name was because she had it written on a badge, and she’d just kind of always been there. He hadn’t really paid that much attention to her. He didn’t think he’d ever talked to her.

He’d just dismissed her as yet another lab assistant, and now she was dead.

His knees give out when he’s about half a block away from the lab; he stumbles against the rough brick of the wall and slumps against it, choking down air.

Why. Why. _Why_?

“Why- the _fuck_ -,” he grits out, and that’s it; he fucking _can’t_ \- “I _fucking hate you_!”  
The wall chips as he slams his automail into it; pieces of brick fly off and the smoke wreathes around him. He doesn’t even know who he’s screaming at- the homunculi? God? _Himself_?

“Fuck,” he says, vision blurring- from tears or the smoke, he doesn’t know- and repeats himself, louder. “ _Fuck_!”

Dragging himself to his feet; he’s unsteady and- there were people back there taking _pictures_ like it was some kind of _joke_ ; like people hadn’t fucking burnt to death, like Lydia hadn’t been-

“Why the _fuck_ is it always people connected to _me_?” He demands, and the wall doesn’t reply.

He smashes his fist into it again, and again; the automail protests and Winry’s going to fucking murder him if he keeps this up-

“ _Why_?”

It’s so fucking selfish to blame himself, but he can’t _help_ it, this shit follows him, haunts him wherever he goes. First mom, now _Izumi_ -

What if it’s Al next? What if next time, it’s Al under the white tent, and Roy’s standing there saying _“I’m sorry_ ,” with pity in his eyes- what if it’s _Al_?

What if it’s all Ed’s fault?

He almost collapses again, picks himself up, retches, keeps going. He doesn’t even know where he’s fucking headed; he can’t get away from all this _smoke_ -

 

In the shadows of a side alley, a curvaceous figure pushes itself off of the wall, and turns away. The figure watches for a moment longer, as Ed, oblivious, turns a corner and disappears from sight. Then she walks away, heels clicking softly on the pavement.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ............sorry, Ed
> 
>  
> 
> (i'm a terrible person and I shouldn't be allowed to write fic)


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ed can't catch a break. Ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just realised I've been needlessly putting A/N at the beginning of all the notes. Don't really know how to feel about that. Anyway, yeah, updaaaate! Not much Roy, I'm afraid. BUT: winry/rose hell yeah. And some elricest if you squint??? I'm surprised at myself, honestly.  
> In other news: poor Ed. He never can catch a break, can he? I guess that's my fault, though. I will make sure he gets some nice things in the next chapters or he'll never forgive me lmao.  
> Also- Al POV. He seems horrifically OOC in this, but....I am honestly way too tired to go back and edit. I'll probably go back over and fix things like horrific OOC-ness when I've finished the goddamn thing, anyway. *sigh*  
> UuuuunBeta'd!!!! Enjoy ^^;;;

By the time Winry arrives, and Al is getting ready to organise a search party and Roy is getting ready to join him. 

He sees her out of the corner of his eye; he’s supervising the extraction team when the car screeches to a halt a little way away from the crowd. She leaps out of the vehicle, shouting “Thank you!” to whoever is driving, and sprints towards the wreckage. Al sees her a second later; he glances up from his phone as she screams, “ _Al!”_ and almost drops it.

Roy watches as Winry ducks under the tape, ignoring the flustered police officer who tries to stop her, and rushes to Al’s side. Although he’s only standing a few metres away, Roy still has to strain to catch their conversation.

“How did you get here?” Al asks, taking in her panicked state. She takes a moment to catch her breath, swallowing, and replies,

“I paced around the kitchen for half an hour, then I looked for a car, but you don’t have one and there weren’t any lying around that I could steal, so I went to the grocery store, and Rose was there, and her shift had just ended- so I asked her to give me a lift.” She points over to the crowd, where Rose Thomas is making her way carefully through the groups of camera-phone brandishing spectators. She sees Winry gesturing and smiles shyly, waving. Winry blushes.

“you- I- okay,” says Al, shaking his head, “Okay, fine-,”

“Where’s Ed?”

Ah. It didn’t take Roy long to figure out that Winry Rockbell would make a formidable opponent: her voice has taken on a dangerous tone, and he sees Al hesitate.

“ _Alphonse Elric-_ ,”

“He ran off,” says Al, “About twenty minutes ago.”

“He _what_?”

“Yeah,” says Al, and holds up his phone, “and he’s not answering. I’m thinking of going to look for him.”

“I’ll come too,” says Winry, in a tone of such finality that even Al doesn’t argue. “And what about Mrs Curtis? That’s who you came to look for, right?”

Al nods, glancing in the direction one of the ambulances left in ten minutes ago. “They got her out- she’s okay.” At this, Winry closes her eyes in relief.

“Oh, thank god.”

Al nods in agreement. “yeah. They wouldn’t let me go with her to the hospital, but she didn’t look too badly injured, and May said she’d text me with further details when she had them.”

 Roy remembers a slim Asian girl in a paramedic’s outfit speaking to Al in hushed tones while Mrs Curtis was loaded onto a stretcher; he’d seen some of the stress dissipate from Al’s shoulders almost immediately, for which he was glad. Were the Elric brothers _ever_ going to catch a break?

Winry is looking back at Rose, who is standing at the line of tape. She beckons, and Rose ducks under it, hurrying over. Roy fights a grimace; he really shouldn’t be letting this many civilians onto the scene-

“Sir, we’re ready to go back to the station.” Hawkeye appears at his elbow; she has a smudge of ash on her forehead and  the cuffs of her shirt are dirtied by the smoke. Roy nods, turning away from Al, Winry and Rose.

“Very good, sergeant,” he murmurs, and they make their way over to the car. Havoc is there already, cigarette smoke mingling with that of the ruined building as he gazes pensively at the wreckage. He looks up when Roy and Riza arrive, and musters smile.

“Alright, Sir?” He asks, automatically, and Roy nods. He wants to _stay_ ; he wants to look for _Ed_ \- but he can’t. He knows that. He has to get back and work on catching the bastards who did this.

He slides into the car; Havoc stubs his cigarette out on the sole of his shoe and Riza beats him to the front seat, which he bemoans as he gets in the back. Usually, Roy would smile, laugh, tell him _better luck next time_. Not today. 

 

***

 

Rose is wearing her work clothes still: black skirt, white blouse, and her name tag pinned to her lapel. Al can’t help but notice how Winry turns her body to face her as they stand in a group, how their arms brush multiple times. Body language. Al knows quite a lot about body language- and he’s used to noticing these things from the way his brother and the detective are around each other.

It’s bad, he knows it is, that he resents Ed. He doesn’t _want_  to, after all- but he can’t help it. Maybe _resent_ isn’t even the right word. He’s just- annoyed. And tired. Ed, always running off, always _acting_  without _thinking_ , always making decisions without consulting Al first…it’s hard, sometimes, to stop himself from just standing and yelling at Ed for hours and hours until he gets the message.

He just can’t bear it when Ed gets himself hurt. Well- _can’t_ is a bit of a figure of speech; it’s more like he doesn’t _want_ to bear it, but he _has_ to, because it happens such a lot. Too much. Rose is saying something; he should be listening.

“-parents want me to go with them, just for a couple of weeks.”

“All the way to Oregon, though?” says Winry, and Rose bites her lip.

“Actually,” she says slowly, “I was going to ask if- if you maybe wanted to come with me.”

Winry’s eyes widen, and Al gathers that Rose is moving to Oregon with her parents, presumably to get out of the crossfire. HE doesn’t blame them.

“I-jeez, I mean, I’d _love_ to, but-,” Winry looks at Al and Al smiles at her. Yes, they haven’t see Winry in _ages_ , but with everything going on right now, if she’s in Oregon, that’s one less person he needs to be worried about.

(Is that selfish? It sounds kind of selfish.)

“But what?” he asks, because come on, Winry deserves a vacation with her girlfriend, “I think it’s a great idea.”

“You and Ed could come, too,” Rose offers brightly, and Al waves her away.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, “Brother and I need to stay here- and besides, I have school, and Ed has-,” He almost says _‘the lab_ ’ and manages to stop himself at the last minute. Winry notices, and her expression turns sad.

“His job,” Al finishes quickly; “Ed has his job in the coffee shop, which he is going to lose if he misses much more of it, and then we’ll run out of money. So we should really stay here, you know?”

Rose nods, a little glumly. “Right,” she says, and looks up at Winry. “So…do you want to? I mean, you don’t have to, of course, and I was just wondering, and it’s absolutely okay if you can’t, I don’t mind-,”

“Yeah.” Winry interrupts, and smiles, red tinging her cheeks. “I’ll come. It’s been a while since I had a vacation.”

Rose beams. Al turns away, towards the smoking lab building, and pulls out his phone again. He’s running low on battery; he’s been calling people all morning, so he’s probably running low on credit too. Al doesn’t even know if Ed _has_ his phone- didn’t he use Al’s to call the detective this morning? _Brother, you are an idiot._

He speed-dials Ed, smoke stinging his eyes as he waits for either Ed to pick up, or for the call to drop.

 

***

 

The wind is icy cold, chilling his skin through his hoodie. Ed flips his hood up, hands shaking. Fuck. He draws a breath in through his teeth, feels his pulse beat heavy in his throat. His skin- it’s boiling, feverish, he stumbles, crashing into the wall and leaning there, slumped and panting. Fuck, fuck, fuck. His side hurts. His arms hurt. His legs hurt, his head hurts, and he needs a fucking cigarette. And a drink of water.

It’s not _fair_.

The pavement swims beneath him- that’s the dizziness setting in. He’ll faint, probably. _What a fucking_ pathetic _way to die. Fainting and getting- stabbed or something by a fucking gang. Al’s gonna hate me_ so _much._

Al already hates him. Ed can’t fucking blame him, either- he hates _himself_ , after all; why shouldn’t Al?

There’s a certain kind of sinking feeling that comes when he thinks that.

“Why do I _always_ have to fuck things up?” he asks of the pavement, and it tilts wildly in response. He groans, harsh bricks digging into his side, prodding at the bandages throughbhis clothing. He must look like some kind of junkie, bent over clutching at his stomach in the middle of the fucking street-

Except there aren’t any people around. They’re all watching the lab building burn through the itty bitty lenses of their fucking iPhones, and has he always been this fucking _bitter_?

Probably. No wonder this shit keeps happening; it’s just the universe trying to get him and his fucking negativity out of the picture.

Waste of space. Waste of space. Waste of space. Waste of-

A sound, behind him, and he herks round, the world rippling like the view through a kaleidoscope-

It’s the woman, Lust, standing a metre away with a very slight smirk on her face. Ed drags himself more upright and-

Holy fucking _shit_ he’s hallucinating. This is just some fucked up fever dream because if it’s _not_  then he really doesn’t know what he’s going to fucking do-

“Hey, brat.”

“I- thought I- _killed_ you.” Ed grits out, eyes blurring. The pain has doubled- no, tripled- and the two black-clad figures before him smile, creepily in sync.

“You’ll have to try harder than _that_ ,” scoffs Envy or the Envy-lookalike. Whichever. Whatever. Ed is going to throw up.

“Envy,” cautions Lust, and continues, “what do you think?”

“ _This_ is our best shot? You sure about that?”

“You’ve seen the rest of the candidates.” Her voice is cold- the wind rips right through Ed as she speaks and he digs his fingernails into the cracks of the wall to stop himself from keeling over.

“What- candidates?” He forces out, and Envy laughs.

“Did I tell you to fucking _talk_ , runt?” Their voice changes abruptly, amusement melting away as they take a few quick steps forward and grab the front of Ed’s shirt. This close, Ed has just enough presence of mind left to register that Envy looks like _shit_. Their face is pinched; their unpractical clothing choice of before has been replaced by a sweater that looks, at the very least, more cold-resistant than their last outfit-

Ed reaches up, scratches pathetically at Envy’s grip. “Fuck- you-,” he says, and Envy brings their face in _close_ , snarls,

“Not so cocky _now_ , are you? Fuck, Lust, I don’t think this one’ll be _alive_ in time to complete the experiment-,”

“He’ll be fine. Are you done? It’s cold and Pride is waiting.”

“Pride, Pride, _Pride,_ I don’t see _you_ blowing up any buildings-,”

“Nor are you likely to. Don’t forget who’s _running_ this operation, Envy. Don’t forget who saved your life.”

Envy’s face twists; their grip on the front of Ed’s sweater is gone and he ground is cold and hard on Ed’s back. As Envy retorts, he rolls over weakly, fingers reaching for the knife in his boot as he tries to heave himself into a standing position. It didn’t work once; fine. He’ll just have to kill the fucker again, and this time make sure they _stay_ dead-

 A boot slams into his spine and he crumples again, biting back a cry as his ribs are crushed against the concrete.

“Now, now,” says Envy in his ear; Ed turns his head enough to see their face, twisted by a violent sneer, inches away from his own. “None of that.”  The comforting weight of the knife in his boot disappears as Envy reaches down to slide it out, holding it up admiringly. _Bastard-_ Ed struggles, snarling, and Envy jumps back, laughing.

“Later, pipsqueak!” They call, waving Ed’s knife over their head as they move away, Lust already halfway down the street.

“Hey, do you think Pride’ll let me keep this?”

“Why don’t you ask him?”

 

Their voices fade with the footsteps Ed can no longer distinguish against the roaring backdrop of his own blood.

He pushes himself up slowly, and the world sways alarmingly. His knife is gone, to say nothing of his fucking _dignity_ …

A familiar voice rings out, buffering the edges of the cotton wool stuffed into his skull.

“Al, I’ve found him!”

“Brother!”

“Should I call the ambulance?”

“No, thanks, Rose- could you help me get him up-?”

“Ed, what did you _do_?”

His eyes are on the verge of closing, but he can make out Al’s face, Winry’s eyes, and that girl from the grocery store- Rose- peering at him with worry etched across her features.

“…f’ck you…” He mumbles, “wasn’t me. Al. The homunc’lus.” Al’s face moves to encompass his field of vision.

“The homunculus? They jumped you _again_?”

“…Envy…’nd that Lust chick…I think they’re planning something…something _big_.” He has to tell Al about what they said- the experiment they mentioned, the ‘candidates’. He _has to tell Al_.

“Okay, brother, just close your eyes-,”

“ _No_ -,”

In the background he can hear Winry’s shrill voice: “The _homunculus_? Isn’t that the group who _kidnapped_ him?”

Al drapes Ed’s arm around his shoulders, and heaves. The universe spins.

“Brother, you’re so _heavy_ \- come on, Rose has offered us a lift…”

 

His steps are barely _steps_ \- Al is half carrying, half dragging him to wherever they’re headed. Winry appears on his other side, he can tell by the way she grabs his automail and loops it around _her_ neck, grumbling insults under her breath.

“Ed, you’re so stupid,” she mutters, and Ed opens his eyes enough to glare at him. No point in bothering, really, though. She’s right, after all.

Time passes strangely, after that. He has enough brain power left to register the car ride back, his head in Al’s lap, fingers combing absently through his hair, and he knows when they’re back in the apartment because he hears the door closing behind them, feels it in the vibrations that run across the floor and up his legs. Shitty flooring.

Winry is saying something in hushed tones- Ed makes out something about “staying with Rose,” before the door opens, closes again, and Al is flicking light switches.

 

“Come on, brother,” he says, but Ed gets the feeling like Al is just saying it out of habit. Automatic.

“Al. I’m sorry.” The words try to trip his tongue up but he’ll be damned if he lets them; he says it slowly, clearly, eyes squeezing shut in concentration. There’s a pause, and Al says, softly,

“I know. It’s okay.”

Ed shakes his head. It’s not _enough_ ; ‘sorry’ is such a _little_ word, but he doesn’t know how else to communicate the depth of his remorse, his regret, his fucking oceans of _guilt_ -

“ _Al_. I’m sorry, I’m _sorry_ , I- fuck everything up and you don’ deserve a shitty brother like me-,”

“Ed.”

Al’s supporting frame disappears; Ed sags against the doorway to the living room as he forces his eyes open. Al stands in front of him, hands on his hips, stern-faced. Oh no. he’s using the Mom Glare again.

“I _know_ , “ he says, and with a jolt Ed realises that he’s fucking- Al’s fucking _taller_ than him. “And I’m telling you it’s okay. _Yes_ ,” he says, raising a finger before Ed can argue, “I’m annoyed. Slightly more than annoyed, brother, but I _know_ it’s not your fault. You didn’t ask for this.”

Ed stares at him. When did Al get so _tall_? When did Al get so…. _Mom_?

Al grabs Ed’s arm, lugs him around the coffee table and into the bedroom. “We both did it, brother,” he says quietly, and Ed knows he isn’t talking about recent events. “I asked you to. I _instigated_. We both get a fair share of the blame in this,” he says, and Ed has never been so close to the edge of tears. “Just go to sleep, and in the morning, we can figure this out. Together. Like it’s always been.”

Slowly, Ed nods, exhaustion and pain like a blanket pulled over his eyes. Because it’s always been him and Al, from the beginning. Since Mom died, it’s been them against the world, or at least that’s what it seemed like.

Ed makes a half-hearted attempt to kick off his shoes, and decides it’s too much effort. He buries his face in the pillow instead, and Al flicks off the light, slender frame silhouetted in the doorway.

“Although,” he remarks thoughtfully, “you’ve kind of got the detective now, haven’t you?”

And he shuts the door before Ed can fully process what he’s said and launch into a tirade.

 

 _“You’ll have to try harder than_ that _,”_

 

It’s bad, isn’t it, that as Ed starts to topple into sleep, he feels just the slightest hint of _relief_ settle in the bottom of his stomach. _So he_  didn't _kill anyone, after all._


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They're going to get through this, and they're gonna kick it's ass, because they're the goddamn Elric brothers, and that's what the do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW LOOK AT THIS AN UPDATE YOU SAY??? AFTER, WHAT, EIGHT MONTHS???  
> I know. I'm sorry. So, yes, I _am_ still writing this, and I will continue writing this!!!!! (I had a super great idea for the ending the other day so THAT WILL BE FUN) and I hope you'll continue supporting it! I'M GONNA GET THIS DONE, YOU GUYS ;U;
> 
> Anyway, now that that bit's done, let's get to the good part. Chaaaaapter!!!! Enjoy <3

Ed is woken from a surprisingly innocuous dream about a maze by a knock at the front door. He opens his eyes blearily, lifts a hand to rub at them and winces when he feels how stiff his muscles are. Fuckin’ _ouch_. Harsh wind cuts through the wind from the broken window; it looks like someone’s duct-taped a torn sheet over it, but it’s not doing much to stop the cold.

There are footsteps, and Al is opening the door. Al. If Al’s here, that means it’s either a weekend, or it’s _really fucking early_ so he hasn’t left for college yet.

“Oh! Russell! What a nice surprise!”

Only Al could say the words _what a nice surprise_ without sounding either a) sarcastic or b) like an asshole. Also- _Russell_? As in, Russell _Tringham_? As in, the weed-smoking dropout that works at Roasty Toasty? As in, the weed-smoking dropout with the younger brother who’s life Ed saved that one time when-he clenches his fists-the scumbag Envy tried to shank him?

Dammit. Now he’s curious.            

There is the sound of excruciatingly awkward foot-shuffling, and Ed shuffles up the mattress in order to lever himself into a sitting position, scratching a hand through his hair. There’s a low mumble, and he scowls at the wall in the direction of the door: if Russell _fucking_ Tringham is going to fucking _wake him up_ at some godforsaken hour on some godforsaken day of the week, he should at least have the human fucking decency to _speak the fuck up_.

Al is making a vaguely conformational noise. “Sure, I’ll pass it on. Does this mean Fletcher’s dropping out?”

There is a mumbles reply, and Ed’s scowl deepens when he affirms that he cannot, in fact, hear through walls.

Al’s nodding; Ed can tell by the minute changes in the invisible strings connecting his and Al’s minds. He furrows his brow, sends _tell Russell to speak the fuck up or get the fuck out of our apartment_ via Elric Brother telepathy, and waits for the response.

There is a bit more awkward foot-shuffling, and the door closes with a cheery, “thanks for dropping by!” from Al.

So he took the _get the fuck out_ option, then.

 

The door opens; Al peeks round and brightens perceptively when he sees that Ed’s awake- awake n the most loose sense of the word; he’s sitting up, yes, but he still looks half-dead and more-than-half-asleep.

“That was Russell,” he says, “he came by to say thank you for saving Fletcher.”

“Took him fucking long enough,” says Ed, “it’s been, what, a month?”

“I think you’re wildly overstating the time period, brother.”

“I think your _face_ is wildly overstating- the- time-,” Ed’s retort is cut off by a colossal yawn, which is a shame, because it was an incredibly witty one-

“That’s intelligent,” remarks Al, and walks over to open the curtains. “Another rainy day,” he observes, and Ed groans, throwing himself back down.

“I’m going back to sleep,” he says, “if fucking Russell comes back, punch him in the face for me.”

“He won’t be coming back.”

There is a long pause, and Ed raises his face slightly to look up at Al with one eye still buried in the pillow. “…That sounded…ominous,” he says slowly, “You didn’t maim him, did you? I mean, not that I would _complain,_ but if the police-,”

“What are you talking about, brother?” asks Al, sounding a little exasperated. “I mean Russell’s not coming back because he and Fletcher are moving out of state.”

At this, Ed raises his head fully. “What, forever?”

Al nods. “Yep. Apparently Fletcher’s finishing his course at a different university in Ohio and Russell’s found work at a botanist’s.”

Ed raises his eyebrows. “Wow,” he says, muffling another yawn behind his automail, “’Didn’t think Russell’d ever get, like, a _job_ job.”

“Right, but that’s not the point,” presses Al, and Ed squints at him.

“There’s a point to this? I thought you were just talking to stop me from falling asleep again.”

“Well, that, too, but- Brother, everyone’s leaving. Russell and Fletcher moving to Ohio, Rose and Winry are going to Oregon and I’m sure-,”

“Wait, _what_? Rose and Winry are _what_?”

“Oh, yes, you weren’t there…”

“Are they _eloping_? We don’t know Rose well enough to just let her- _steal_ Winry! What if she’s a serial murderer? What if-,”

“Brother, sit _down_ -,”

 

Just like that, Ed knows they’re okay again. That they’re going to get through this, like so many other things, together. And they’re gonna kick its fuckin’ ass, because they’re the goddamn Elric brothers, and that’s what they _do_.

Slowly, the light outside changes, and the clouds move sluggishly overhead, and Ed wolfs down five slices of toast and even drinks half a mug of tea before realising what it is he’s chugging and spitting it everywhere in a betrayed sort of way.

***

“What were you saying, anyway?” Asks Ed an hour later as Al inspects his injuries with a practiced eye. “About- _ouch,_ Al- everyone moving.”

Al peels away the heavy pad covering Ed’s stab wound and sighs. “What? Oh. I was saying that things are heating up, for sure. I saw mover’s vans at four different houses this morning when I went to get groceries; if people are getting worried, it’s bad. After all, it’s not as though this area’s not accustomed to- murders and things. This is serious.”

Ed turns slightly to look out of the window. They’re sitting on the couch, various medical supplies scattered across the coffee table. Raindrops stain the windows and he nods, uncharacteristically serious. “Yeah. It’s gonna be bad, this time.” He turns back, leans forward. “Listen, Al-,”

“I’m not leaving.” says Al, calmly, and selects a fresh swathe of bandage and a bottle of foul-smelling antiseptic. “You’ve pulled your stitches again,” he says, cutting of Ed’s rant and balling up the used bandages, throwing them with perfect accuracy in the trashcan across the room. “I’m putting you under house arrest until it’s healed fully since I can’t trust you not to get into any more fights.”

“Wha- Al- wait, _house arrest_? I’m not _three_ -!”

“Well, you certainly act like it, Brother,” says Al, and Ed yelps as he dabs at the wound with a cotton bud soaked in antiseptic.

“That _stings_ -,”

“Of course it does, it’s antiseptic, what did you expect…?”

***

Roy drops round at three o’clock to inform them that they haven’t made any progress, and Ed tells him about the experiments the Homunculi mentioned.

“So you getting yourself hurt again actually turned up something useful,” says Roy wonderingly. “Who would have guessed?”

“You _bastard_ , what the hell does that mean? The fuck are you saying?

Roy pats him on the head, cheerfully. “Nothing at all. Well, I’d better be going- this could potentially help us rather a lot.”

“ _Potentially_?” Snarls Ed, struggling to push himself into an upright position on the couch, “You’re just loving this aren’t you, you bastard.”

Roy smirks. “I’m afraid I have no idea what you mean,” he replies, picking up his coat from the arm of the couch.

“Me! Not bein’ able to stand up and kick your ass because _someone_ -,” Ed glares in Al’s direction, “-has me on fucking ‘bed rest’!”

“Don’t be absurd, brother,” says Al idly, from where he’s writing an essay, leaning on the kitchen counter, “the reason you can’t stand up is because of the injuries that you got given when you ran into the homunculi. I’m just looking out for you.”

Ed opens and closes his mouth for a few seconds, unable to come up with a response because- okay, _maybe_ Al has a point but-

“Well,” says Roy, “I’m not going to deny that it’s really quite hilarious- but,” he says, just as Ed whips back around, eyes blazing, “Al’s right. You’re injured, and this time, you’re actually going to get the allotted days of bed rest. We’re just worried about you, Ed.”

For fuck’s sake. “I hate you,” Ed mutters, “why’d you have to do that _thing_?”

Roy, who is putting his shoes on, looks up, genuinely confused and- god _damn it_ \- even more fuck’ gorgeous than usual. “What thing?”

Again: _damn_ it. “The _thing_ ,” wails Ed, “where you look all…stupid. An’ I can’t _argue_ with you.”

“ _Stupid_?”

Al clears his throat loudly from the other room. “Well!” he says, “I’m going to school now, so you guys have fun, okay?”

Ed twists in his seat to look at Al, bright red. “You have school? It’s the fucking _afternoon_ , why do you have _school_?”

“Afternoon classes are a thing, brother,” says Al, brushing cat fur off his sweater and donning his coat. “Not that you would know that, since you dropped out of school when you were, what, twelve?”

Ed nods thoughtfully. “That sounds shitty. Have fun! Learn something!”

“I’ll try.”

Roy stands, too, a very definite pink tinge dusting his cheeks. “I should probably go, too- I mean, I was going to go anyway, of course-,”

“Oh, no, you should stay!” says Al, opening the door. “Someone needs to look after brother to make sure he doesn’t commit any crimes against his health.”

Roy flounders. “I- well- I suppose I could-,”

“Perfect! Bye, brother!”

The door closes behind Al with a ring of finality, and Roy looks helplessly to where Ed is buried under a blanket, his ridiculous upflick of hair poking out from under it.

He mumbles something unintelligible, and Roy raises an eyebrow. “Sorry, what was that?”

Ed’s head appears from beneath the blanket; he’s as red as a stoplight. “I _said_ , you can sit down. If you want. Whatever. I’m going to sleep. Wake me up if there’s food,” he adds, and disappears back under .

Slowly, Roy sinks onto the end of the couch, careful not to jostle Ed, which would be difficult considering he’s curled in a ball on the other end. With a sigh, bend down to undo his shoelaces again.

Babysitting duty, huh? He’d better text Riza and let her know he’s not coming in for a while- and send her the new information. He stifles a yawn, pulling out his phone. Well,  he _does_ have a ton of leave that he hasn’t used up yet. And he is _really_ tired.

For some reason, he hasn’t had a good night’s sleep since that night with Ed…

He finishes texting, and the reply of confirmation comes back within seconds. It’s almost as if Riza expected this to happen.

….Which would be stupid, of course. Right?

Roy looks at the softly breathing bundle of Ed next to him, and blinks, just to make sure this isn’t a dream. Honestly, after an entire lifetime of _weird days,_ the past week or so has _got_ to be the weirdest series of days so far. _Thanks to Ed_ , he thinks, and relaxes back against the couch. He’ll just rest his eyes for a while. Just for a little while…

 

***

 

Roy is awoken by Ed prodding him in the side with a metal toe.

“Wha-?” he blinks, blearily, and realises that he’s curled slightly to the side, cheek pressed against the back of the couch. Ed is looking at him, hair all static-y and big because of the blanket.

“Hey. You fell asleep,” Ed says, and flushes, tugging a hand through his hair which just makes it even _worse_. “I mean, obviously. Anyway, uh, Al left some money so I was gonna order takeout? Is that okay?”

Takeout. Ed. “What? Oh, sure,” Roy sits up, checks the time on his watch. It’s five; he’s slept for about an hour and a half. Rubbing his eyes, he can’t decide if it’s too much or too little sleep.

“Al called like, ten minutes ago,” says Ed, producing his phone from beneath the blanket. Roy wonders what else he’s got under there- _nope_. He very firmly directs his mind _away_ from Ed, and whatever Ed… has under his blanket. “It woke me up,” Ed continues, “He’s gonna be a bit late today, somethin’ about Mei wanting to study.” He scowls as he keys in a number- should Roy be surprised that he has it memorised? Probably. He isn’t. “I don’t trust her.”

“Of course you don’t,” says Roy, and Ed flips him off without looking up from the screen.

“Al _right_. Takeout time!”

Roy is barely listening as Ed orders; he’s too busy staring wonderingly at the bright, sharp, volatile face; the curve of Ed’s neck and the slip of his hair over his shoulder; the wide-collared sweater he’s wearing and the view of his perfect collarbones it affords him…

He should’ve been a photographer. He could have made a fortune with Ed as his model, angles as sharp and smooth and hard as the colours he carries: gold and silver and deep amber for his eyes.  
Ed is made of precious metals, but still Roy sees in the shadows that flicker across the planes of his face a certain guilt, a certain self-hatred that tastes like copper in Roy’s mouth. He wants to take Ed by the shoulders and tell him, show him, make him _see_ just how wonderful he is.

He still can’t find the right words to describe him, this beautiful, mesmerising man-boy-Ed.

He still can’t find the right words to tell him- Ed, I love you.  
He can’t do it. It wouldn’t be fair, after all: that would be forcing the matter and it’s clear that Ed doesn’t want to think about it. Roy wonders if he’s doing the right thing, by staying so close to him. He reasons that if he doesn’t, he would be leaving Ed unprotected: as an officer of the law it’s his _duty_ to keep him from harm’s way…

…But that’s laughable. Roy knows- Alphonse knows, Hawkeye knows, it seems the only one who _doesn’t_ know is Ed- that the law has nothing to do with why he’s still here.

 _You’re doing it again, Roy, you stupid, stupid bastard._ And he is. He’s getting attached, and he’s getting careless, and sooner or later something terrible is going to happen and Ed will see straight through all the pretence and the masks and the suavity and he is going to _leave_.  
 And Roy will deserve it, of course. He always does.

 

“Are you even listening to me?”

“What?” Roy blinks; Ed is glaring at him, phone in his outstretched hand. He clears his throat, takes it back. “Sorry- yes. I was lost in thought.”

“Yeah, I can see _that_ ,” snorts Ed, and rolls his eyes. “Anway. Food’ll be here soon.” He yawns, wide; Roy can see his molars. “I’m just gonna…have a little…sleep. Wake m’up when food.”

“I’m fairly certain that last sentence didn’t make any sense, but alright.” Roy stands up as Ed settles back into a drowsy bundle of hard metal edges and warmth. “I’m making coffee so- ah. You’re asleep.” He looks down at Ed, looks up at the duct-taped sheet flapping slightly over the shattered window, and drags his hand through his hair. Right. Coffee.

 

 

When Ed wakes up- read: is woken up- again, it’s dark. Darker than before. And _cold_. He pulls the blanket closer to him as he sits up, grimacing as his ribs flare painfully. He….needs a shower. Like, now.

There’s a noise from the front hall and Ed instinctively dives for the knife hidden down the back of the sofa before realising that it’s just Roy. 

Roy, and a _hell_ of a lot of great smelling food.

He’s standing in the doorway, having just closed the door, holding a teetering mountain of aluminium boxes, a look of intense concentration on his face.

 _Well_ , thinks Ed, _that’s unexpectedly hot_.

And then he thinks, _shit_ , because hang on a fucking second, his brain isn’t _supposed_ to think shit like that without his say-so.

Roy gingerly sets the glorious food-pile on the coffee table and glances at Ed. “I was just about to wake you up,” he says, and flushes a little. Damn, that’s cute. “Do you- food?”

“Always.” Replies Ed, and holds out his hand for the chopsticks.

 

***

 

When Al gets back, the first thing he says is “I hope you left me some,” in regards to the mostly-empty stack of takeout containers, and the second thing he says is “brother, you really need a shower.”

Ed shoves the container of egg fried rice at him. “Here. Wait, are you saying I _smell_?

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Al replies, and takes the container and the chopsticks Roy proffers. “Oh, by the way- Mei’s coming over in a minute to look at your various injuries. She just had to go home to grab her kit first.”

Rice sprays out of Ed’s nose, which is not as appealing as it sounds. “ _What_?”

“You agreed to frequent check-ups,” Al reminds him, wielding his chopsticks expertly as he scoops up the rice. “I’m not nearly as qualified as Mei is- it’s really amazing, actually, considering how young she is-,”

“ _Gross_! We don’t wanna hear about your crush on Mei!” Wails Ed, and throws a balled-up container at him. “You’re too young to have a girlfriend! No dating until you’re at _least_ thirty, y’hear me?”

“My ears work perfectly well, brother,” says Al cheerfully, “That doesn’t mean I’m _listening_ , though.”

“When did you get so _sassy?”_ Asks Ed, and turns large anguished eyes on Roy. “When did he get so sassy?”

Roy- laughs, because how can he _not_? Al smiles triumphantly, sets his empty rice container on the table, and that’s when the doorbell rings.

“That’ll be Mei!” he says, and is across the room faster than Roy can say “I should go”. He hesitates, glances at Ed. Ed glances back, half-frozen in a sulk, half already moving to cram more chow mein into his mouth.

“what?” he asks through the noodles, and Roy shakes his head, only a little bit exasperated.

“Oh, nothing.” He checks the time on his phone; damn, it’s already past seven. “I really do need to go now-,”

“Detective Mustang!”

“….Miss Chang. How lovely to see you again. Ah- if you’ll excuse me, I have to-,”

“No way! I’m doing this out of my own free time, so you have to stay here and assess my performance-,” she shoves a piece of card and a pen at him. And Roy takes it automatically. Damn. Hawkeye has him trained a little _too_ well when confronted with pieces of paper. “-Otherwise it won’t count towards my degree.”

Roy swallows. Seeing Ed shirtless? _Yes_. But also _no_ , because he’s too far in already and he can’t- he can’t- “I’m not a medically trained professional,” he says, “I’m very sorry, Miss Chang, but I’m afraid I’m not qualified to-,”

“Look, all you have to do is tick the boxes that say ‘excellent’,” she says, flicking her braids behind her and folds her arms. “And then sign it. It’s _easy_. Also, you need to move- sit over there.”

She points to the only other chair in the room, a little way away, and turns firmly to face Ed. Case closed, her back says. It’s decided.

With a sigh, Roy accepts his fate. Besides, there’s only _so much_ harm it could do him to see Ed without his shirt on again, right?

Al clears the stacks of takeout containers from the table as Mei rolls up her sleeves and yanks the blanket off of Ed, draping it over the back of the sofa. He groans loudly.

“I hate you, Al,” he says, and the Elric brother in question pokes his head round the kitchen door to grin.

“Take off your shirt,” says Mei, opening her ominously large first aid kit and setting it on the newly-cleaned table.

Ed glares at her for a few seconds, but she raises an eyebrow and for a moment is terrifyingly reminiscent of Winry Rockbell. With a wince that could probably be seen from outer space, he complies, slowly peeling the sweater he’s wearing over his head.

“He pulled his stitches again,” says Al, re-entering to peer over the back of the couch. “I thought you should take a look at it- after all, you’re more qualified than I am.”

Mei _beams_ at him. “No problem! Mm, yeah, pretty nasty, actually… _what_ did I tell you about moving around?” She eyeballs Ed, and he squirms under her gaze; Roy can’t stop staring at how _beautiful_ he is.  
His chest is smooth and tanned; here and there small white scars mar the perfect skin and Roy can’t help but think that they only make him look more tangible. More _alive._

“Jeez, I _apologised_ didn’t I?” Ed is saying, and Mei’s nostrils flare.

“Oh, you _apologised_? Well, ex _cuse_ me! I suppose that makes it all better then, doesn’t it?”

“It fuckin’ _should…_!”

His ribs are just _slightly_ too prominent; just _slightly_ too visible. They are bruised, deep purples and blues, faded green and pink around the outside. Roy holds back a wince just _looking_ at it, the patchwork of hurt painted like a warning sign on Ed’s body. The white bandage cuts a harsh contrast between the warm expanse of Ed. In the centre, Roy can see where the material has darkened ever so slightly; the wound has bled through the layers underneath. His fists clench without him realising it. How dare they hurt Ed like this? How dare they scar him permanently- because it will be, this injury. Roy remembers it , red and gaping and slick with blood- too much blood; the smell of it had dragged memories out from where he’d carefully locked them away. He remembers Ed’s face, pale and ghostly, his eyes sliding closed, his breath gushing out of him.

He remembers the way Ed forced himself to smile, gripped his brother’s sleeve like nothing would make him let go. He remembers the flare, dazzling, white-hot and oh god he remembers the way Ed’s body jerked, the cry that came clenched from behind his teeth.

The piece of card crumpled a little in his fingers and he looks down, smoothes it out again. Al is looking at him, he can tell. He signs the card at the bottom, signature loopy and bright on the dotted line.

 

***

“fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck_ -,”

“stop swearing,” mutters Mei, and ties off the last stitch. “It’s _your_ fault you messed them up completely and I had to do them all over again.”

Ed squints up at her through the haze of _ouch ouch ouch ouch_ and manages, “…fuck you.”

“No takeout for three weeks,” says Al, and Ed whips round so fast he cricks his neck.

“What? Why?” he asks, massaging the damaged tendon . “ _Al?”_

“Swearing, brother,” says Al, “I keep telling you, but you never listen, so I’m going to take action instead.”

“Over _swearing_?”

“Yep. Oh- are you done?” the last is directed at Mei, who is snapping off her plastic gloves. Al takes them from her and puts them in the bin; she smiles.

“Yes, all done!” She turns to Ed, fire in her dark eyes. “Now,” she says, “ _you_ are not to do _anything strenuous_ for at _least_ two weeks, do you hear me? That includes fight, running, jumping, or any movements like this-,” she raises her arms above her head, stretches them out to the side and puts them behind her back. “Got it?”

“I won’t be able to do _anything_!”

“Exactly.” She replies, and starts packing up her kit. Roy walks forward with the card, hands it over. She looks over it with a critical eye, and sniffs.

“It’ll do,” she mutters, and Roy stifles a laugh.

Ed tugs his sweater back on, wincing slightly as it moves over the fresh bandage. “For _two weeks_?” he asks, and Mei fixes him with another glare.

“Yes,” she says. “Two. Weeks. And if you _don’t_ , then you’ll pull your stitches again, and I won’t come to your rescue, so you’ll just bleed to death. Okay?” she grins, all cheerful and cute, and Ed looks positively terrified.

“….okay.”

“Great! Well, I’d better get home,” she says, “It was nice to see you again, Detective!”

“You too,” murmurs Roy, and makes his way over to Ed. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” says Ed, yawning again. “’M good.”

Al hands Mei her coat. “How did you get here?” he asks, eyeing the broken window. He’s thinking about the Homunculi, about the gangs and the cold weather and the darkness festering like an open wound in the heart of the city.

“Oh, I the bus,” she says, “But it’s just a short walk, so even if the buses aren’t running, it’s not far.”

“Nonsense,” says Al immediately, and Ed rolls his eyes as he picks up his coat. “I’ll walk you back.”

“Oh- are you sure?”

“I insist.”

Mei giggles, and loops her arm through Al’s. “Well, then you can carry this,” she says, and he takes her kit.

“Be back soon, brother!”

Ed wriggles back down the couch to assume his sleeping position. “yeah, yeah,” he says, “Be safe. Don’t talk to strangers. You have your-,”

“Yes, brother, I have everything I could possibly need,” says Al, cutting him off before he can say the word ‘knife’. “Bye!”

“Bye, Al.”

The door closes again, cold air briefly rushing in, and Ed shivers before looking up at Roy, who is still standing next to him.

“…so,” he says, “they’re…gone.”

“So they are,” says Roy.

“And you’re…still here.”

“Evidently.”

Ed is being about as subtle as a train wreck. “…”

Roy looks at him, amused and, yes, alright, more than slightly aroused but who can blame him, really? It’s too late to go to work _now_ , and until Al gets back, someone really should stay with Ed to make sure he doesn’t go off chasing criminals again…

In the end, Ed makes the decision for him. He tosses his hair back, grabs the front of Roy’s shirt, and drags him down into a kiss. Roy’s knees hit the floor; Ed is _way_ stronger than he looks. The carpet digs into his knees through the material of his pants but who the hell _cares?_

Ed bites Roy’s lip, hands fumbling at the buttons, and Roy is going _crazy_ at the feel of him, warm and ruffled and just as sexy as the first time he ever saw him, outside that bar in those leather pants- _god_ \- if not more so…

“Roy- will you just- fucking _fuck_ me already?” Ed growls into his mouth and Roy is _this close_ to saying _yes please_ when he remembers that Ed just had new stitches put in for a _stab wound_.

“You know we can’t,” he gasps, and Ed yanks his head back, away from Roy’s lips.

“That’s so- fucking- un _fair_!” he whines, “I’m _fine_ -,”

Roy raises an eyebrow, draws back as well. “Really?” he asks, “ _really,_ Ed? Because _I_ don’t think you are, actually, and I have no intention of having sex with you while you’re still injured.”

Ed narrows his eyes, all of a sudden analytical, and shakes his head slowly. His hair, tumbling and smooth, slips over his bare shoulders where the sweater is falling down, and Ed reaches up to tangle his fingers in Roy’s collar.

“Really?” he asks, and leans up to press his mouth to Roy’s neck. This is- _new_. “Are you sure?”

So Ed _does_ know how to be seductive. Roy shouldn’t be surprised- after all, Ed managed to seduce him the first day the met, didn’t he? He smiles, a little breathless, as Ed’s lips move against the side of his neck, moving upwards ever so slowly.

“I’m sure,” he says, and Ed grazes his jaw with just a _hint_ of teeth.

“Don’t make up your mind just yet,” he says, breathing wetly against the corner of Roy’s mouth as he tugs him down again, gently but with so much _strength_  behind his grip- oh god- “There’s time to change your mind.”

Ed kisses him, slow and deep and _burning_ ; Roy is scared at how quickly the balance has changed; he is powerless against Ed and oh, god, did he really think he could resist this?

“Ed-,” he pants, “Ed- we can’t-,”

“No such thing as ‘can’t’,” Ed murmurs, and his fingers are rubbing Roy’s nipples through his shirt.

“I really think there _is_ , actually,” says Roy, struggling for breath, and Ed makes a noise of annoyance.

“Shut up,” he says, and pulls him down again.

For a minute, it’s just that: Ed holding all in the delicate balance of power; Roy just trying to keep his head above the water- and then-

Roy’s phone buzzes, loudly, startling the both of them. Ed falters, Roy grins, and firmly, gently, pushes him back.

“Not today,” he says, pulling his phone out of pocket. It’s Maes, wanting to know where he is and why he hasn’t been in today. Ed pouts, folding his arms across his chest. His lips are very red. Roy can’t resist leaning down to kiss him again- just _once_ more.

“Soon,” he promises, and smiles. “If you listen to what Mei said, it’ll be less than two weeks.”

“ _Fourteen days_ ,” moans Ed, dragging the blanket up from the bottom of the couch and pulling it over his head. “ _Fourteen_.”

“It’s not _that_ long,” says Roy, “and, you know…just because there’s a no sex rule doesn’t mean other things are off the books.” At this, Ed’s eyes appear over the top of the blanket.

“Oh, yeah?” he asks, and Roy raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” he says, and is just about to elaborate when-

“I’m back, so you have about thirty seconds to replace any lost items of clothing before I come in there!”

“ _Aaaal_!” groans Ed, and throws himself back under the blanket. Roy stands, holding back his laugh.

“Hello, Alphonse,” he says, a little sheepish, as Al comes through the door.

“Oh, good, you’re both dressed,” he says, and an agonised wail emanates from the couch. “Oh, grow up, brother,” he sighs, and Roy inclines his head, recognising his cue to leave.

“Thank you for your hospitality today,” he says, “I’ll leave you in peace now.”

“Anytime,” says Al , waving him off. “Have a safe journey back! Did you hide your car somewhere?” he adds, suddenly worried, “because someone will have stolen it if you didn’t.”

Roy had, thankfully, been warned about that. “Yes,” he says, “I hid it around the back- hopefully no one found it.”

“If they have, I can walk you back, too,” says Al, and Roy…would really rather that _didn’t_ happen, actually.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine, but thank you for the offer.”

As he leaves, Ed sticks his arm out from under the blanket to wave, and this time, Roy doesn’t fight down the laugh. The air is cold and fresh against his skin as he steps through the doorway, but it’s pretty cold in the apartment, anyway…he should ask Havoc to have a look at those windows, actually- or maybe Riza. She would probably do a better job.

He shoves his hands into his pockets as he exits onto the street, turning onto the road where he left his car. It’s a five-minute walk, and when he reaches it, the cold has soaked through him and frozen him to bone. Thankfully, the car is untouched; he breathes on his hands to warm them up and jacks the heating up to full as he starts up the ignition.

Now all he has to do is solve this case. And then…well. After that, he’d just have to wait and see.

 

 

 


	17. Heating Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have tonsillitis, apparently. *sighs* this is just my luck lmao, oh well. It just means more time for writing this, right? Anyway, this is quite a short chapter but I hope y'all enjoy it anyway! Plot moves forwards by quite a lot...we have gotten into the picking-up-the-pace zone, hooray!   
> UnBeta'd, Unedited, not my anime. Cool.

 

The warehouse is very quiet- eerily so. The kind of quiet that comes from absolute, choking fear. Twenty pairs of eyes shine bright and wide in the darkness, watching in terrified silence as the figure paces slowly back and forth in front of them. Huddled against the wall, the owners of the eyes press themselves closer together. Someone lets loose a sob, quickly stifled, and the figure stops pacing to stare directly at the group of tiny crouching bodies. All at once, the children go tense and still as stone, not daring to breathe. A dark liquid drips slow and steady as the basin in the corner shines with reflected moonlight, and Envy laughs, low and malicious.

***

“Ed,” says Al, quietly urgent. Ed looks up blearily, shaking his head slightly like he’s trying to dislodge the dregs of sleep from his brain. His neck aches from being shoved up against the arm of the couch, but he’s too exhausted to move to the bed.

“Yeah?”

“You said that the Homunculi told you that you…or me…were the only ones who could do their experiment, right?”

Ed frowns. “Yeah, something like that.” His voice crackles and he coughs a little, presses one hand to his ribs as the motion sends a flare of pain through his injuries.

Al leans closer, setting down his textbook. “The detective told us that they were destroying labs that had been doing research on artificial life. I’d have to check, but I’m willing to bet that they sole the research before burning the buildings down.”

Ed shakes his head. “Sure, okay,” he says slowly, “…So what?”

Al swallows. “So, Brother…do you…” he stops, takes a breath, and when he looks up again, his eyes are so hard and determined that Ed is reminded all at once of the two of them, ten years old and alone and ready to face the world. “ Do you think this all has something to do with- dad?”

***

It’s been two days since Roy saw Ed last. Two days; give or take a few hours. He’s been into the office, of course, running scans on the remains of material picked up from the destroyed laboratories, interviewing the survivors- found few and far between- trying to find out what was stolen from the buildings, and staring at hours upon hours of CCTV footage. He’s downed cups and cups of coffee; Riza has been giving him this look recently like she’s warning him off replacing his blood with the beverage, and he’s sure that she’ll start cutting his caffeine allowance by the end of the week.

It’s been two days, and the ghost of Ed’s lips still tingle on his own; he is painfully aware of it every time he goes to take a drink or lick his lips. The memory of Ed’s hands have burned themselves into his skin like imprints, like ownership brands. Like the claim has already been staked. It scares him a little, that he can’t find it in himself to hate it.

He’s driving home from work, and tomorrow it will have been three days since he last saw Ed. The roads are icy cold tonight; the wind buffers the outside of the car and he’s never been more grateful for heated seats. Two days. Three days.

His street is just coming up on the right when his phone rings. He almost doesn’t notice it; it’s on silent and besides, his mind is so full of Ed, Ed, Ed that it’s a wonder he hasn’t crashed into a wall by now. The only reason he hears it at all is because he’d set it in the cupholder before he left, so when it vibrates, it does so obnoxiously loudly.

Maes’ ID flashes up on the screen, and Roy turns onto his street, one eye on the road while he swipes to answer. A detective, breaking the law. He doesn’t bother to stop himself grinning a little at that.

“What is it this time?” He begins, but almost immediately his demeanour changes as Maes’ voice, shot through with fear, cuts through the faint background noise. A second later Roy slams on the brakes, phone pressed against his ear as he spins the car, taking off back down the road with a squeal of tires, adrenaline and horror surging through him.

“ _Roy, Elysia has been kidnapped.”_

 

***

Ed goes very, very still. “Why would this have anything to do with that bastard?” He asks finally, throat tightening with the familiar anger. “Why would anything have anything to do with him?”

Al goes to the table, pulls a book out from the pile. It looks nothing like the textbooks he uses for class, or the notebooks he does his work in. It’s a journal; old and ratty and all-too familiar to Ed.

“This is his research,” says Al, “everything he was working on. Everything he left behind before he- left.”

“ _Left_.” Says Ed quietly. “Left _us_ , you mean. Left _mom_. Left us all alone while he _knew_ she was _dying_!”

His voice rises steadily and towards the end he’s almost shouting; how can Al think it’s a good idea to bring up the slimy fucking bastard? More importantly, bhow can he still call him _dad_ , after everything he did?

“Yes,” says Al, refusing to be dissuaded. “everything he left behind when he left us. His was one of the first labs to be targeted by the Homunculi, remember?”

Ed bunches his fists in the blanket so he doesn’t punch something. “We don’t know it was the Homunculi,” he says, and Al rolls his eyes.

“Yes we do,” he says, “You heard the detective. It matches exactly.”

Ed takes a sharp breath, jerks his head up. “So _what_?” he asks, and pries his hands from the blanket to gesture sharply. “So fucking _what,_ Al? His lab was targeted; amazing! His and fifty others! It’s just a fucking coincidence.”

Al stands up. “No,” he says, “it’s not a coincidence. Ed. _He was researching artificial life_. The Homunculi attacked his lab, and they probably stole his research. If he survived-and it doesn’t list his name among the dead; I checked- then maybe he went after them. Maybe he knows where they are! Either way, he probably knows a lot more about the whole situation than any of us do.”

God fucking _damn_ his fucking _stab wound_ ; Ed can’t jump to his feet and scream like he wants to, but he can do the closest damn thing.

“We have been _fine_ without him for _nine fucking years_ ,” Ed snarls, “we are _not_ going looking for him now!”

“That depends what you mean by ‘fine’, Brother!” Says Al, and Ed grits his teeth because, okay, maybe they’re not doing so great but they’re a damn sight better off without the cowardly bastard with them. He tells Al so, shouts it really, but Al’s used to dealing with Ed’s shit by now so he just folds his arms and levels the Mom Glare.

“Well, it’s too late for that anyway, Brother,” he says when Ed’s finished, “because I already tracked him down.”

“You _what_?”

 

***

The station is fairly quiet when Roy gets back, but the office is brimming with noise and movement. He steadies himself against the doorway; he’d sprinted here from the car park, taking the steps three at a time, and finds Maes within the throng of people.

They make eye contact, and Maes is next to him in seconds.

“What happened?”

“I was finishing some paperwork when Gracia called me,” says Maes tersely. His hands are shaking. “She said that Elysia went out to play in the backyard and when she called her to come inside, she didn’t answer. Gracia went out to check, and she was gone.”

“Are you sure it was a kidnapping?”

“ _Yes_ ,” says Maes, “I’m not stupid, Roy! She went to the neighbours and they said they saw a woman with long black hair talking to her. Some dog walker said that a girl fitting my daughter’s description got into a car with blacked out windows that drove south, towards the warehouse district.”

He’s breathing hard; Roy can see that all he wants to do is go and look for Elysia himself, and he doesn’t blame him.

“We’ll find her,” he promises, gripping Maes’ shoulder. “Do you have a team out searching?”

Riza appears, pale-faced, and replies, “A group of officers were dispatched a few minutes ago, sir.” She is fully armed, Roy notices, and looks around to find Havoc. He’s over by Feury’s desk, chewing on a cigarette and checking his ammunition. They’re both ready to move out at a moment’s notice, and he’s so fucking proud of them he thinks he might burst.

“Has Bradley been informed?”

“I sent a messenger up about thirty seconds before you arrived, sir.”

What will he do? Roy wonders if he even cares. Will he tell them to do what they like? To stay put? Bradley is keeping too many secrets, and Roy doesn’t trust him at all, which isn’t that much different from the usual. Archer, the Homunculi, the Elrics and now kidnapped children? Why is Bradley staying so calm and uninvolved? What kind of director is he trying to be?

“Do we have any idea if this is an isolated incident?”

“Yes, sir.” Riza’s eyes are very serious. “I checked the records. In the past forty-eight hours, eight children-including Elysia- have been reported missing from the Bridge District alone.”

Roy’s mind works furiously. The Bridge District is the wealthier part of the city, and Maes lives on the outskirts of it, closer to Portside, the city centre, than the middle of Bridge. Portside isn’t as wealthy as Bridge, but it’s levels of crime and homelessness are nowhere near as bad as the district Ed and Al live in.

Riza hands him a map of the city. Red dots signify the places where the kidnappings took place, with a timestamp next to them. They move from left to right, starting the outer right edge of Bridge inwards, to Maes’ area, on the other side of the district.

“They moved across the city,” he says, and looks up. “These are just the reported kidnapping, yes?”

Riza nods, and Roy swallows. “Which means there will be at least the same amount again of unreported abductions from the homeless sectors,” he says, following the trail with his finger. “Since it looks like they started at the edge of bridge and moved straight through, all the way to the warehouse district.” He pulls a pen from his pocket and circles the cluster of warehouses, shown as blank squares on the map, situated towards the left of the map, just overlapping into Ed and Al’s district, Lodge.

Riza takes it back, looking over the map critically. She nods. “It makes sense that they would move through, taking any children they saw on their own. If they did head straight for warehouse, then there would have been plenty of opportunity to pick up homeless kids in Portside and maybe the outskirts of Lodge.”

Maes clears his throat loudly, face taut and urgent. “Has there been any news from the officers we sent to search the warehouses?” he asks, and Roy turns to look at Riza, heart pounding.

“Not yet, sir,” she says, and her fist clenches. “But we won’t let them go free.” Her voice is fierce, and Roy nods in agreement.

“They’re taunting us,” he says, and his eyes narrow. “Abducting kids out in the open like this…it’s not broad daylight, but it might as well be. It’s like they’re mocking us, telling us there’s nothing we can do.”

Riza frowns. “’They’?”

Roy looks down at the map, at the trail of red circles, each one a child. He nods. “The Homunculi.”

 

***

Al sits back down, leans over to the desk and spins his open laptop around so Ed can see the screen. “I tracked him down, or at least, I tracked his last known location. I have no idea if he’s still there, but,” he shrugs. “I’m going to check it out, whether you come with me or not, brother. We need to confront him about this.”

The screen is open to google maps, the pin in the middle and the directions listed down the side. Ed looks closer, trying to read the place names. The pin is planted in the next state over, about a city away from the border. Not far. Not far at _all_ , maybe an hour’s drive?

Ed looks up at Al, sees the determination in his eyes, and he knows- he _knows_ \- he can’t stop him.

“I’m coming,” he says. “So you can either wait until there’s no more risk of me getting fuckin’ internal bleeding after I punch him in the face, or we can go now, and it’ll be your fault that your big brother dies of haemorrhaging from giving that fucking bastard what’s coming to him.”

Al- smiles. _Beams_. Like he can’t believe it. Ed can’t believe it himself, really, because…he really doesn’t want Al to do this. But he knows he can’t exactly fuckin’ _stop_ him either, and- he grudgingly admits- Al has a point. The bastard is probably involved, because the bastard has a tendency to get involved with shit that always ends up looping back round the Ed and Al. And that’s not fucking _fair,_ it’s not _fair_ that they always get the backlash of something that _seems_ like it could be an unfortunate coincidence on the surface but always ends up linking back to a certain fuckin’ _Van Hoenheim_.

Plus, Ed _really_ wants to punch him in the face. He wants to punch him in the face, and tell him all the shit that’s been boiling inside him, deep down, since the day he left. He feels like he’s four years old again, watching his father’s back as he leaves them and doesn’t look back. _Why_? He wants to ask; _Why did you leave us? Why didn’t you say goodbye?_ Why _, you fucking_ dickbag _, didn’t you save mom?_

“We’ll go when you’re better,” says Al, and Ed nods. “Thanks, brother.”

“Whatever,” he mutters. “Don’t expect me to fuckin’ _talk_ to the shithead, alright.”

Al picks his textbook up again, still smiling sunnily. “Alright.”

 

***

"The Homunculi?" asks Maes sharply, "how do you know it's them?" Roy shakes his head, moving further into the room. 

"I don't, not for sure," he says. "But after everything that's happened, it's too much of a coincidence that such a wide string of abductions should occur right after everything else."

The sharp crackle of static rings through the room, and everyone goes quiet as Feury scrambles for the radio.

“Report?” he asks, and the voices come back, clipped and strange.

“There’s nothing here, sir,” says one.

“Completely empty, sir,” says another.

“There are no signs of the kindappers whatsoever, sir,” says someone else.

 _Shit_.

Roy strides over to the desk, snatches the radio from Feury, who is staring at it in confusion.

“Officers, this is detective Roy Mustang,” he says, “Can you confirm again that there are no signs of disturbance in the warehouse dstrict?”

“None, sir,” says the first voice. “It’s empty.”

Roy nods. “And there are no tire tracks, or any other signs that someone was there at all?”

“No sign, sir.”

“Very well,” says Roy, “return at once. Over.”

“Yes, sir. Over.”

The radio goes silent, and Roy looks up, grim faced.

“Sir,” says Feury tentatively, into the silence, “Does this mean they didn’t head for the warehouse district?”

Over by the door, Maes makes eye contact with Roy, the faintest trace of hope lighting his face. Roy nods at him.

“Oh, no,” he says, “They’re there alright.”

He goes to his desk, unlocks his drawer and takes out his gun. “Let’s go. There’s been no reply from Bradley, so we can assume that we’re free to take action.”

“Wait, what do you mean?” asks Breda, hurrying forwards, “I thought they said-?”

“They lied,” says Roy. “Remember when I asked if there were signs that anyone had been there at all?” Breda nods.

“They said there weren’t any.”

Roy nods. “Exactly. IF they were telling the truth, they would have noted the tire tracks form the last time we went to the warehouse district. They made no mention of any of the tracks we left behind. They lied- maybe they were being forced to, maybe they weren’t, but either way, they were not telling the truth.”

Breda’s eyes widen with realisation, and he nods, picking up his own gun. Feury pulls his radio towards him again, determination hardening his features. Roy looks over to Maes. _We know where she is_ , he thinks. _Now we just have to get her back._

“Is everyone ready to move?” Roy asks, and is greeted by a chorus of affirmatives. He straightens his shoulders, sliding his gun into his jacket. “Then let’s go.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW this chapter took. so long. _so long_.  
>  I was originally hoping to post this on 5/20, royed day, along with another thing i've been writing but tonsillitis intervened, sigh :( it's all better now, though, and hopefully I can get back on track!!  
> unbeta'd and unedited, as usual :) enjoy!! <3

It’s been two days. Two days since Roy came over. Two days since they last kissed.

Ed is disgusted with himself. He’s acting like- like some stupid lovestruck fuckin’ teen and that is _not_ what’s going on here, _no one_ is in love with anyone…except…maybe…

Okay, _fine_ , so he’s _in love_ with Roy, so what? He almost sneers, but restrains himself- Al is literally sitting a metre away flipping through Hoenbastard’s journal and glancing up occasionally as if to check that Ed’s still there.

Two days. Ed sighs, thumps his head back against the pillows. It’s been a _long_ two days, that’s for sure. Winry had dropped in yesterday to fix a loose connection in Ed’s automail and sigh wistfully about her new girlfriend.  Still, it felt better now, having two working- if a little battered (Ed still has the bandage from that goddamn _bullet wound_ )- arms again.

Winry’d seemed a lot more…content. Ed wonders if that’s what _love_ is supposed to do to you, give you that kind of …glow. She’d walked in, tool kit slung over one shoulder, flushed and somehow _shining,_ like her skin was being lit from underneath. Ed’s pretty sure _he_ looks nothing like that.

“Winry! I thought you’d left already?” Al’s exclamation from the doorway had carried through to the couch room, where Ed was now destined to spend the rest of his life, apparently.

“Nope,” said Winry, hefting her kit as she walked in, “we’re leaving tomorrow morning. It’s going to be _great_ \- did you know that Rose volunteers at a children’s hospital?” She’d set the case down, yanking Ed’s arm towards her without looking as she stared- no fucking kidding- dreamily into the distance. _Honestly_.

As she started to unscrew the tiny metal screws holding the forearm plate in place, she continued in the same sunshine-and-rainbows tone. “She’s going to set up her own charity, helping rehabilitate homeless kids, and she’s asked me to co-lead with her! Apparently,” she said, beaming, “my prosthetic engineering qualifications are _amazing_.”

“Oh, _vomit_ ,” said Ed, watching Winry pry open the metal plating, and recoiled when she snatched a wrench from the depths of her tool kit and brandished it, eyes flaring.

“You watch it, Edward Elric,” she said, “I haven’t mocked you about your cutesy little relationship with _detective Mustang_ yet, but that doesn’t mean I _won’t_.”

Ed yelped as she plucked a wire neatly from the inside of his automail, spluttering as he worked his way through several denials. “Hey! There’s no such thing as a _relationship_ , alright? We. Are. Not. Dating!”

Winry shrugged, selecting a wickedly pointed instrument and poking around inside the tangled wires, hair slipping forward over her shoulder. The fall of blonde hair might have obscured her facial expressions, but Ed could hear the evil grin through every syllable. “Oh, really? Well, Al says he walked in on the two of you having _sex_ recently, and _I’d_ say-,”

“Woah, woah, woah! _Al_!” Ed tried to wriggle to freedom, crimson-cheeked, but Winry had a firm grip on his arm and he could do nothing but struggle ineffectually for a few moments, unable to combat the flush staining his neck and face. “What the _fuck_ , Winry?”

“She has a point, brother,” said Al from his nest of learning, a corner piled high with books. He was submitting his thesis soon, and even while red-faced with rage, Ed couldn’t help but feel just a little bit proud, too. “While you’re not officially dating, there’s definitely a _relationship_ there.”

 

Yeah. It had been an interesting visit.

Since Ed was still bedridden and injured and stuff, Al had called the hospital this morning so they could talk to Izumi. She sounded tired, which just…didn’t translate, because whether or not it was 3am or midday, Izumi Curtis had always been the most awake thing in the entire lab. Ed had always envied that, coffee-dependant wraith that he was. So it had shocked pretty much straight through the core when her voice came through the speakers, laced with exhaustion.

Some things never changed, though; the strength Ed was so accustomed to, the kind of marble-pillar steel-beam strength that Izumi carried wherever she went- that was still there. Unmistakable, even under the layers of fatigue.  
And when she started chewing him out for running off and getting himself beat up (“ _Did you just miraculously forget everything I taught you and Al? You either stand up and fight, or you run!” “_ I was kind of concussed and suffering from a fucking _stab wound_ at the time, Sensei…” “ _Don’t_ ‘Sensei’ _me, Edward Elric!”_ )he grinned, because she was alive and he and Al both knew that something as small as this wouldn’t keep their teacher down for long.

She and Sig had taken them in when they’d first moved here- a twelve year old fresh from a coma and a thirteen year old with metal limbs. Well. Maybe ‘taken in’ wasn’t the right word. The reason they’d ended up here was because they’d run away from the foster home the adults had put them in. It had been a fucking _shitty_ place, though, so Ed doesn’t regret getting the hell out of there. He’d seen the looks some of the carers gave the kids sometimes, the looks they gave _him_ sometimes. He shudders, remembering. No way would he have let Al stay there; sure, there was a fucking cat that Al’d been pretty attached to, but…no. Not ever.

So they’d run. In the middle of the night, all the things they owned in the world stuffed in a backpack along with about two hundred dollars cash that Ed had stolen from the safe back at the home. They’d made their way across state, begging and stealing for food and money, and there had been some close calls. A _lot_ of close calls. A lot of bad memories.

And then they’d gotten to this kind of area. Where there was a lot of poverty, but also a lot of business, and they’d been holed up in some back alley with a shelter made out of cardboard and corrugated iron when they decided to hit some of the shops for whatever they were going to have for dinner that night. They were old hands at it, by then; it’d taken like half an hour and Al was sliding out of the back window of the fresh produce store holding a bunch of carrots and a lettuce. Ed remembers distinctly what had happened next.

He’d wrinkled his nose at the vegetables, scanned the street from their vantage point on someone’s roof, and said, _hey, I’m gonna go steal an entire pig from that butchers store._ And Al had said, _I bet you get caught_. And Ed had given him an indignant look and slid down a drainpipe to make good on his promise.

To be fair, he didn’t _know_ that the owners of the store were multiple martial arts champions, or that they had no qualms about using said skills on grubby teenagers.

If he had, he probably would’ve been a lot more cautious about it.

It had been after several hours that Ed- and by this point Al, who’d come to rescue his older brother and been caught, too- had noticed the books on the counters, the lab coat hanging on the back of the door, the boxing gloves hanging on the coat rack, the katanas sheathed on the worktop. And he’d said, eyes suddenly blazing, heart so very, very tight,

“Teach me.”

And many hours later, Izumi had said, “Alright then.”

 

It had been a good few years that they’d spent with the Curtis’s, working in the store to pay off the debt for their lessons and schooling. Well, Al’s schooling. After the Curtis’s had discovered the brother’s intelligence they’d enrolled them in the local school, but for Ed, the experience hadn’t lasted long. He didn’t want classrooms and respect-demanding authority figures telling him things he already knew, and most of all he didn’t want _other kids_. The whispers were always too much; the funny glances at his automail and the teasing.

‘Course, that had stopped pretty early on, because Ed had just _punched_ the ones that got all in his face about it, but still. Bravado only went so far, and besides, it was boring as hell, so after about two terms, he just stopped going. Izumi found out he was skipping, and after a rather painful lecture, she permitted him to come to the labs with her instead.

“Learn some real science,” was what she’d said, and Ed had _thrived_. Al had kept going to the school, and Ed was glad, because god knew Al deserved a proper education. And look at him now, Ed thinks, glancing over to his brother. Just days away from graduating. Perfect.

When Ed was seventeen, they’d moved out of where they were staying in the attic of the Curtis’s store and gotten their apartment. And the rest is history.

Except it’s not; Ed’s always _hated_ that fucking saying because what the hell is it supposed to mean anyway? The rest is history? The rest is so typical of the incredibly vast and diverse fountain of human accomplishment up till the present that it’s not even worth mentioning? What?

“You look like you’re having a brain haemorrhage, brother,” says Al with interest, and Ed scowls at him.

“Shut up. I’m just thinking.”

“That’s new.”

“Shut _up_. How’s the journal?”

Al sits up a little straighter, bugging the journal close to his chest. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that,” he says, “like I said, dad was researching artificial life. But the term is so _vague_ -like a catch-all term for anything to do with growing stuff in test tubes, you know? And it turns out…” he holds out the book, Ed takes it from him automatically, scanning down the page, “it goes a whole lot deeper than that. Look there- third paragraph down, seventh sentence.”

Ed finds the sentence, and yeah, it’s pretty damn interesting, but he’s not going to tell Al that. “Code? So what?”

Al rolls his eyes. “Stop pretending to be so disinterested. I cracked it- about ten minutes ago. Guess what it says.”

Ed frowns hard at the line of symbols. He’s seen stuff like this before. “Hang on,” he says slowly, “give me a few seconds and I won’t _have_ to guess. This is-,”

“Exactly!” crows Al triumphantly, “it’s the same as all that stuff we were looking at when- when mom died. The ‘resurrection’ stuff. Bullshit, of course; completely scientifically unsound, but it’s the same code they were using. There’s a reason for that.”

Ed’s eyes widen. He remembers that; remembers sifting through well-handled tomes in the back of Hoenheim’s office, heavy leather bound books with spines that creaked when they opened them. He remembers flipping through to find publishers, authors, companies, _names_ …typing the information into search engines and scrolling through the results on their mom’s computer. Getting so deep, so far that the shit they were reading was less science, less medicine, and more myth and blood and twisted magic.

Dark magic. “Necromancy”, that kind of thing. And the real stuff, too: things that people had actually _tried_. Strings and strings of illegal experiments, real life mad scientists trying desperately to find the secret to immortality, shocking news stories of kidnapped children being used as guinea pigs in sick tests that had no hope of working in the first place…

Yeah. He remembers.

“You mean…?”

“Yeah. Dad was looking for the secret to eternal life.” Al stares down at the journal in Ed’s hands, and shakes his head. “That entry is one of the last in the book. It says that he’s close; that he’s going to talk to some doctor in Guatemala and his flight leaves in a week. It says that his contacts have told him that “the experiments are going well”. I don’t know what exactly they were trying to do…earlier on he said something about one of the people he was working with wanting to try a gene-splicing on some kids looking to get money, but dad was adamant about not testing on living humans. I hope…I hopoe he didn’t change his mind about that.” He looks up at Ed with bright golden eyes. “I think-,”

And that’s when something downstairs makes a very loud shattering noise, and both of them go utterly still.

Ed holds his breath, not moving as he strains his ears to listen. It’s a reflex; they’ve both been through too much to just dismiss noises like that, and maybe that’s a good thing because they hear louds voices, then a slamming door.

“Window?” breathes Al, and Ed nods.

“Have you got your knife?”

Al nods. Ed stands up, wincing slightly as his wounds twinge. He pulls on his boots, moving slowly as the movement tugs at his injuries.

“Fuck,” he says, “I’m probably not gonna be able to run for my life if it comes to it.”

Al is packing Hoenbastard’s journal and the laptop into a backpack. “Don’t worry,” he says, “We’ll go over the rooftop. If it’s the Homunculi, I expect they’ll have people watching the roads on every side, so the roof is our best bet if we want to avoid confrontation.”

Ed finishes putting on his shoes and checks his phone. Fifty percent battery. It’s as good as it’s going to get; he shoves it back in his pocket and yanks his hood up with one hand while he darts into the kitchen to grab his knives from where Al had left them on the draining board. He squints at it as he slides them into their sheathes.

“Did you wash my knives? Like, with our plates and stuff ?”

Al nods, one ear pressed to the door. “Yes, yes, I know, “that’s gross, what if we get bad-guy blood on our cutlery”- be quiet, brother, I’m trying to- footsteps.”

“You’re trying to footsteps?”

“ _No_ , Ed, they’re coming!” Al grabs his arm, dragging him back through to the living room, and over to the window. They look down; there is a black-clothed figure chilling on the sidewalk.

“Quickly and quietly,” says Al, “go.”

“I know, I know,” mutters Ed, climbing up onto sill and grabbing onto the top of the frame, “I’m not _five_ Al, I’ve done this, like, three hundred and eighty times already- _fuck_ -,”

The knife hits the wall an inch away from his fingers and he has to bend his head back to look down. The figure in the street- it’s just a _kid_ , for god’s sake, what are they _doing_?- grins up at him, twirling a second knife in their fingers.

“Okay, fuck _you_ ,” says Ed, spinning on the ledge so he’s facing outwards; al tugs on his hoodie from inside.

“Brother, they’ve got the building surrounded-,”

“Yeah, I know, Al,” he says, and moves. He swings himself out of the window, ignoring his ribs and the burning pain in his abdomen as he pushes off the window sill with his feet and hoists himself up, fingers clenched on the edge of the rooftop. Al shouts just as he hears the whistle of the second knife; a burst of adrenaline lends Ed speed and he _heaves_ , legs swinging wildly through empty space to avoid the knife, which hits the wall with a _crunch_ as he uses the momentum to push himself over the lip of the edge and onto the roof.

“Come on,” he shouts down to Al; the figure below is gesturing up at them to someone he can’t make out. Al follows him up just as a crash echoes through the room downstairs.

“They just broke the door down,” Al informs him breathlessly.

“Fuck,” says Ed, and they stare around them at the rooftop, flat and empty except for a small concrete box containing-

-“The stairwell,” groans Ed as the doors burst open and two figures step out, moving towards them, coats whipping slightly in the wind. He looks around for an escape route; Al points towards the adjacent roof.

“If we run, we can make it!” He shouts, and Ed grins, bearing his teeth to the darkening sky.

 Bring it the fuck on, that’s what he always says.

The two figures moving towards them seem to realise what they’re doing, because they startle, seem to speed up, but Ed and Al are already running, pushing off from the edge of the rooftop and launching out into empty space; Ed hits the next roof and rolls, coming up exultant, shouting “Parkour!” as they keep running, and Al hits him in the arm, the picture of grace and agility as usual.

“What? It was!”

“Do you have to alert _every_ gang in the city that wants you dead to your presence?”

“There aren’t that many gangs-,”

“Yes there are. “

Ed takes a gulp of air, fresh cold wind numbing his cheeks and nods. “Alright, maybe a few.”

They keep running, and the black-coated figures behind them give chase.

 

***

 

The Warehouse district is eerily quiet again- but this time, it’s the eerie quiet of a lot of people keeping – or being kept- silent.

“We’re being watched,” murmurs Hawkeye as they move towards the doors of the same Warehouse they were in last time, flicking off the safety on her gun. Havoc does the same, nodding.

“I’ve got this weird feeling between my shoulder blades,” he mutters, rolling his shoulders. His fingers tap against the box in his back pocket; Roy can tell that he’s itching for a cigarette.

“We’re splitting up when we get inside,” says Roy quietly. “Hawkeye, you’re with me. Hughes, Breda, Havoc- you go find Elysia. Hawkeye and I will keep the criminals distracted.”

His team murmurs an affirmative, and Roy breathes in, drawing cold air through his teeth.

 

***

 

The inside is as musty and damp as it was before, but this time footprints have scuffed away the layer of dust that had lain on the floor. Silently, he points them out to Hawkeye, and she nods. Some of them are larger, like their own, but most of them are too small to belong to adults.

“Looks like we’re in the right place,” says Roy, into the silence. They tread carefully, moving through the hallway. On their left, the door where they fought the- man, looms, and Roy gestures to it with his chin. “Hawkeye and I will take this door,” he says, “the rest of you, go on ahead. Check _every_ room- but if there’s confrontation, and you’re outnumbered, do not engage. These people are dangerous, got it? _Retreat if you are outnumbered_.”

“Understood,” says Havoc, and Breda nods. Hughes is peering down the hallway, ready to sprint off on his own, and Roy claps him on the arm.

“Stay with them,” he says quietly, and Maes nods. His glasses flash in the darkness.

“I’ll do my best,” he says. “But if I see her-,”

“I know. Go get your daughter back.”

They both nod, and the two teams part ways, disappearing into the shadows. The darkness is so thick; the only reason Roy knows where Riza is at all is because he can see the red light on top of her radio flashing where it’s clipped to her belt. They move towards the door, each taking a side. Riza holds up her hand- Roy squints to make out her gestures- with three fingers, counting down. When she folds down her last finger, they move as one, slamming the door open, guns pointing straight into the room.

“Police!” shouts Roy, but he doesn’t get any other words out before Riza’s leg sweeps his feet out from under him and he hits the floor. _Again_? Is all he has time to think; lights flash in front of his eyes and he wonders if maybe he’s got concussion before realising they’re gunshots. Riza rolls smoothly, pulling him to his feet and they exit the room again, pressing their backs against the door.

“One armed gunman, sir,” she says, breathing hard, reloading her gun. Roy nods.

“Take him in.”

Shots hit the wall above their heads and they duck, plaster raining down on them as they spin; Riza darts through the doorway firing with deadly precision and there’s a grunt of pain.

As Roy follows, he can’t help thinking that the voice seems familiar-

There is a red flash and Roy acts without thinking. He grabs Riza’s shoulder, throwing both her and himself to the ground and something flies overhead; there is a shout and a scuffling noise and for a split second all Roy can hear is his own heavy breathing before-

-the grenade explodes, and they’re flung backwards into the wall.

 

***

 

Coughing, dust raining down on them, Roy rolls to his feet, bracing himself against the wall. Two figures step forwards out of the clouds of disturbed dust clogging the air; next to him, Riza raises her gun. Thankfully, the explosion hadn’t been a large one; Roy’s mind races.

“Concussive grenade,” he says, “radius two metres…they threw it too far. Luckily.”

Next to him Riza coughs, nods. Then she raises her voice, directing it to the two approaching figures, “Put down your weapons. This is the police. We are here to place you under arrest.”

“Roy Mustang and Riza Hawkeye. You know, you _keep_ sticking your noses into our business; it’s getting kind of annoying.”

The dust settles, and Roy’s eyes narrow. “Archer,” he says, levelling his gun, and with a sinking feeling he is not surprised at all. “Frank Archer and- _Kimblee_?”

Solf J. Kimblee.

Jailed for war crimes after Afghanistan. Roy remembers him. Why is he here? Why is he here, dredging up all the fucking memories that Roy _doesn’t want to think about_?

The leaping flare of flames and the smell of roasting flesh; screams that will haunt Roy for the rest of his fucking life and he might be standing in a dust-stained warehouse but right now he could _swear_ he feels the heat of the sun on his arms, the weight of the machine gun around his neck and the explosives packed tight in the truck rattling slowly behind him. The villages they left behind are smoking craters of death and blood and tiny charred bodies. The people they left behind are now scattered across fifty metres of blast radius and Roy’s hands are shaking now, his whole body is shaking like a leaf in a fucking thunderstorm-

“Roy,” says Riza, very quietly, and her hand squeezes gently at his arm. Anchors him.

He blinks, and Kimblee smiles, slowly, a viper grin. “Hello again, Roy,” he says, “I’ve missed you.”

“I’m sorry to say I can’t say the same about you,” says Roy. He looks at Archer. The ma is holding a gun, the barrel a black hole pointed straight for Roy’s heart. Knowing Kimblee, there are explosives lining the walls of this room; it’s a miracle they didn’t go off with the grenade…

“Am I correct in assuming you won’t be surrendering?” Asks Riza, and the two of them look at her, gazes raking her body in a way that makes Roy very, very glad he isn’t in their position when she kicks their asses.

“I’d say you’re pretty damn correct. You know, you should lighten up a little,” says Kimblee, stretching. “Smile, maybe. You’d look so much prettier-,”

Riza fires twice, staining Kimblee’s shirt dark in each shoulder, and for a second he stands there dumbly before the pain hits him and his face _twists_ -

Roy _moves,_ diving to the side as Archer pulls the trigger; the bullet misses him by a centimetre and Riza grabs him, kicking up dust as she throws them behind a crate.

“ _Bitch_!” Spits Kimblee, and Archer chuckles lowly.

“You can hide there as long as you want, Mustang. You will fail, eventually, and Bradley will have you both.”

“Bradley?” asks Roy, pressing the button on his radio so the sound transmits to Feury. “What does he have to do with this?”

“Who do you think is orchestrating this movement?” asks Archer, and his footsteps are moving closer. “Bradley is their eyes in the police force, the criminal justice system. All this time you think you’ve been getting to the truth, when really you’ve seen only what Bradley has let you see. You’re blind, Roy Mustang, and you don’t even know it yet.”

“Is this the part when you do a maniacal laugh and tell us the rest of your evil plan?” asks Roy, “because if it is, I’ll let you get that bit done before we take you in. Knowing the enemy’s movements is always useful.”

“That crate you’re cowering behind is packed with explosives,” says Kimblee softly, and Toy freezes. “They’ve already been disturbed, so I’d be very, very careful if I was you. One push of a button, and we’ll see what your insides look like.”

Roy glances at Riza. She has dust in her hair, and, with a jolt, he realises she’s bleeding from a cut to her forehead. Flying grenade shrapnel, maybe?

“You have five seconds to slide your guns out to me,” says Kimblee, “before I press this little button, here, and paint you are your friend across the wall.”

There is a crack in the crate in front of Roy. Through it, he can see the familiar dark packaging of a c4 bomb.

“They’re probably not lying,” he says to Riza, and she nods.

“I know. I have another gun hidden on me and a knife in my boot, you?”

“I have a knife. Not a second gun, though.”

She nods. “In that case, we should try not to engage, sir.”

Roy swallows; his throat is dry from dust. Slowly, he leans over, placing his gun on the ground. “Our objective is to get out and rendezvous with Hughes’ team. We comply with their request for now.”

Riza passes him her gun and he pushes both of them out from behind the crate, sending them skidding over to the far wall.

“Stand up with your hands in the air.” Archer’s voice is devoid of emotion, but Roy gets the vague sense that he’s enjoying himself.

They stand, raising their arms and inching out from behind the crate to stand in the open. The window high on the wall shows Roy that it’s getting rapidly darker outside. From deeper within the building he hears a shout, and tenses. Hughes.

Archer and Kimblee hear it too; their eyes flicker towards the door and Riza tales the chance. She whips her gun out from behind her; Roy hits the floor, snatching the knife from his boot. Archer cries out as Hawkeye’s bullets find their mark and he staggers, Roy comes up from his roll to find himself face to face with Archer’s gun and-

-the bullet is a white-hot streak of pain on the side of his face, he throws himself to the side but he doesn’t know, doesn’t know how bad the damage is; Kimblee is laughing as Riza shoots at him, but he is weaving like a professional dancer as he scoops up their discarded weapons and fires-

-at the crate of explosives.

“Shit!”

Fire. Roy has known fire, has known it _well_. Riza is screaming at him to get down as she makes for the doorway, and as the first crate buckles, he follows, ducking and shielding his face with his arms as he sprints for the exit. Flames leap at his back and suddenly, something snags his leg and he almost falls. Turning, desperate, he sees Archer, bleeding from the leg and the arm, gripping his calf with a look in his eye so different from any expression Roy’s ever seen him wear before.

Archer, so cold and calm, almost a statue. Archer, the emotionless.

His eyes blaze madly, and Roy tries to kick him off but he is clawing his way upright. The wall next to the crates shatters, and the full explosion throws both Roy and Archer backwards, through the door and into the hallway.

 There is cold metal pressing against his temple as Archer thumbs back the hammer on his gun- whose gun, originally, Roy has no idea- and in front of them the room caves, plaster and dust and fire falling into one another. What has become of Kimblee, he doesn’t know.

The knife. The knife! There is blood in his eyes as he fumbles with it, slashing upwards and opening a line in Archer’s arm. The other man roars in pain but his hold on Roy doesn’t relinquish; Riza is a metre away, unable to fire, and Archer smiles, dead-eyed, and the heat of the explosion is stinging Roy’s eyes.

His head hurts. His breath comes short. His eyes roll up, and the darkness takes over.

 

***

Looking back, Ed is glad that Al insists on stopping off to stash the backpack in a trash pile in an alleyway before they continue.

They’d  only been running for about two minutes when a figure stepped out in front of them with a fucking _gun_ and tried to blow their fucking heads off. Ed yanked Al to the side, the bullet carving a path through the air where Al’d just been and the figure _tsk_ s quietly, staring them down.

“Who the fuck are you?” asked Ed, the wind tearing at his hair, his clothing, his voice.

The figure smiled thinly, teeth glinting, and with a jolt Ed realised this is the same kid that was shooting at them before. They’re, what, _twelve_? _Ten_?

“The name’s Pride,” said the kid, and calls, over Ed’s shoulder, “I got them!”

Ed turned, side stinging, fists clenched, and- of fucking _course_ \- Lust is there, unruffled by their brief rooftop chase, wind carding through her inky black hair. She crossed her arms over her chest and Ed noticed with a kind of grudging admiration that she was wearing a dress. A hulking man trudged to her side, moving as though he’s trying to walk through thick molasses. He heaved a great sigh.

“Is this them?” he asked, and his voice was very, very deep and slow. Al stiffened beside Ed.

Ed wishes he could say there’d been a huge fight, a display of defiance and strength that would go down in history as the final stand of the Elric brothers, worthy of three movie adaptations and countless poems, complete with explosions and dramatic one-liners.

 Unfortunately, it’d been pretty much a done deal when Lust had shown them the pictures of Roy and Mei, handcuffed to respective pipes in a warehouse. That, and the children, of course. Twenty of them, wide eyed and terrified, and Ed’s blood had _boiled_ at the photographs, fists clenching tight enough to draw blood.

“You come with us or they die,” Lust had said, bluntly, offering no room for negotiation. She’d smiled at them, lips curving up in a perfect crescent as she gestured to the car waiting on the street below the building. “Oh, and we’ve burned down your apartment.”

Ed and Al glance at each other in the back seat of the car, handcuffed to the seats in front. Breaking out would be easy, but it’s not going to happen. Not with people’s lives on the line.

 _Congratulations, Ed_ ,, he thinks as they drive into the night, _more people getting hurt because of you._

 


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reason half of these chapters don't have titles is because I'm really bad at titles & im good at inconsistency. just in case you were wondering.  
> This is so rushed and unedited and it feels so OOC and terrible but *shoves fic at you* PLEASE TAKE IT  
> However- good news everyone!!!!!!!! we!!!!!!! are!!!! so!!!! close!!!!! to the end!!!!!!! OH MAN

When he wakes, his eyes are first thing that he becomes aware of. His right eye is a blur of pain and chinks of light through what Roy presumes is blood. His left is clear- or at least as clear as it can be, with his head pounding in tandem with his heart and the smell of blood and flame still so fresh in his mind.  
He winces, gritting his teeth as his head pounds, blinking painfully at the ground. The specks of grit and dust blanketing the harsh concrete are s His arms are pulled tightly behind his back, secured to what feels like some kind of pipe attached to the wall by…manacles? Something heavy and metal, at any rate, whatever they are, they dig into his wrists sharply when he tries to move. His legs aren’t bound. Interesting.

As the pounding in his head moves from _excruciating_ to _manageable_ , he shifts, lifting his head slowly to stare directly into the sole eye of State Police Organisation Director Bradley.

“Ah, Detective Mustang,” the man says softly, “I see you’ve regained consciousness.” He chuckles lightly. “We weren’t sure if you were going to wake up at all for a while there! Nasty head wound you’ve got.”

Of course it’s him. Why wouldn’t it be?

“Director Bradley,” he returns smoothly, keeping his tone as cordial and casual as if they were having a chat during work, “how nice to see you.”

Bradley chuckles heartily again, crouching down so as to be at Roy’s eye level. “It is, isn’t it? I should’ve known you wouldn’t be surprised. You’ve known something fishy’s been going on from the beginning, haven’t you?”

“I’ve had my suspicions, yes,” says Roy, and Bradley nods, laughing to himself.

“Yes, you’re a sharp one, alright,” he says, and suddenly his demeanour changes, turning cold and dangerous in a fraction of a second. “You’ve been getting very involved, Mustang. I’m sorry to say this- I really am, you had a lot of promise- but of late you’ve really been a little _too_ involved. So now…”

A second voice floats in, accompanied by the click of heels on concrte, “So now it’s time for you to be disposed of.”

She walks forward, closing the door softly behind her, her hair an inky wave, her eyes glittering violet.

“Wrath,” she says, and though she’s beautiful, her eyes are utterly, utterly dead. “I  see you’ve had some fun.”  Something stirs in Roy’s memory. She turns to look at him as Bradley- Wrath- straightens, moving to stand by the opposite wall.

“Roy Mustang,” she says, and her voice is mocking. “The great detective.”

“You must be Lust,” he replies, “I’ve heard so much about you.”

She smiles, slowly, and a trickle of worry finds its way down Roy’s spine. Not fear, of course, Roy Mustang doesn’t _do_ fear…

Lust straightens, brushing off her dress carelessly, and Roy notices for the first time that her dark gloves are stained with what looks like blood. She gestures around the room.

“As you can see, we’ve had to move locations a little,” she says, smiling brightly once more. “You collapsed half of the warehouse, after all. So we had to relocate to the basement.”

Roy follows her sweeping gesture and realises for the first time that he isn’t alone. _Stupid, stupid_ , he berates himself; he must have hit his head harder than he thought for him to forget to check his surroundings. Huddled against the wall a little way away is a group of children. Their hands are bound. They do not speak. Most of them have a look on their faces that suggests they are not there, in this cold, dark basement- that in their heads, they are far, far away. Roy knows that look well.

To his right, Maes and Havoc lie slumped against the wall; Havoc’s hands are tied, but Maes…Maes isn’t. Roy shifts on the ground; at the change of angle, light reflects off of something and Roy can see…

 Blood, glimmering wetly on Maes’ forehead, running sluggishly down his cheek; a thrill of panic runs straight through Roy. Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no. He shakes his head, trying to watch for the rise and fall of Maes’ chest, but he’s still too dizzy to focus properly.

On his immediate left, Riza stirs, the noise of her handcuffs rattling against the pipe startling Roy enough to make him turn to look at her. _Thank god she’s alright_.  
 She opens her eyes, and they flick immediately to her empty gun holsters before finding Bradley, leaning on the far wall. In the second before she adjusts to the situation, her eyes widen, but she digests the information ( _Bradley is a_ traitor) quickly and looks across at Roy. He tries to communicate to her without talking that he’s fine, but she doesn’t look convinced, her gaze finding his right eye. Roy wishes he could see for himself what the damage is. All he remembers is a gunshot and a burst of pain- surely…surely his eye isn’t-   

He doesn’t have time for this. He looks Riza over; she has a purpling bruise on her cheek and a gash on her arm, but apart from that she seems unharmed. Even with his world tilting slowly from side to side like a rocking boat, Roy’s mind races. They have to get out of here, they have to escape…how?

He meet’s Riza’s eyes; looks pointedly at her boot, where he knows she had a knife. Her eyes move upwards; a silent _yes_. Roy licks his lips, stomach churning.

“Ah, everyone’s waking up,” says Lust softly, shoes clicking on the stone floor as she paces slowly in front of them: a panther with its prey. “How nice. I’m sure our star guests will arrive soon. They’re a little…busy at the moment, but no doubt Envy will bring them in soon.”

 _Star guests_? With a plummeting feeling in the pit of his stomach, Roy thinks he knows exactly who these ‘star guests’ are, and he hopes beyond hope that he’s wrong.

There is a loud crash from somewhere else in the building, and Lust raises a gloved hand, elegantly inspecting the bloody material there.

“That must be them now,” she says, and seconds later, the door _slams_ open, and the Elric brothers are shoved violently through it.

 

***

 

This place smells exactly the same as before; blood and dust and damp and as they are led at gunpoint, hands cuffed in front of them, past the ruins of the front of the warehouse, Ed averts his eyes from the spray of fresh blood across the rubble.

The little kid is standing right behind Ed; it’s fucking unnerving. He’s not old enough to be throwing knives and the cold barrel of a gun against Ed’s spine. Part of Ed is considering trying to disarm him- but he’s been on the other side of that equation before. He knows that just because someone is young it doesn’t make them any less likely to pull the trigger than an adult. Besides, they could be doing it on purpose; using the kid because he looks so innocent. And Ed would rather not be paralysed, thanks.  
Al is being prodded forwards by a lumbering guy in an ill-fitting jacket- the other member of the trio besides Lust. Ed’s been trying to gauge his skill but he’s coming up frustratingly blank so far- he seems kind of slow and his eyes are glassy, like he’s half asleep or something, but with Al’s life on the line, he’s not willing to test that theory.

“Sorry about the mess,” says a familiar voice, jerking Ed out of his thoughts and- fucking _hell_ , Envy is smiling sharply at him from a few metres away, “someone got a little too creative with their explosives.” They do not sound sorry at all, in fact, Envy’s voice is downright fucking _gleeful_ as they nudge a piece of- Ed doesn’t want to know what that is, actually- something with their toe.

Lust removes her knife from Ed’s neck- _thank you-_ and tosses her gun to Envy. “Where are they?” she asks, and Envy gestures with a thumb behind them, further into the damaged building.

“Basement. Not our original plan, but hey, all the hostages in one place…should be easier to keep an eye on them, right? Gluttony’s down there at the moment but I’m _pretty_ sure they’re all currently asleep, so…”

Hostages. Roy. Asleep? Oh, god- all this blood… _explosives_. Roy’s hurt- possibly fatally- because of Ed. He felt like ice had pierced his fucking heart and now the cold was causing his system to shut down one organ at a time. He felt like- like- fuck, he didn’t _know_ what he fucking felt like; he just wanted to get in there and get everyone out of the line of fire.

Lust nods, sweeping her hair over her shoulder and sashaying past Envy. “Don’t take too long,” she says in parting, just a _hint_ of warning in her voice. Envy’s smile turns hard, and they nod once.

Ed runs his tongue over his teeth; he should’ve guessed that Envy would want revenge for the whole stabbing thing. Him and Al had had their weapons taken from them when they’d stepped out of the car, he feels the absence of his knife like a punch to the gut on top of everything else. Injured, defenceless, and out of options. Lust has disappeared from sight; Envy blows out a long breath, sauntering forwards until they stand almost on top of Ed.

“You mind?” Envy reaches around, snagging Ed’s emergency cigarettes and lighter from his back pocket with a smile. They light up without waiting for an answer, dropping the lighter to the floor and, with a movement so sudden Ed has to forcibly stop himself from flinching, smashing it with their heel, grinding it into the ash. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” Ed grits out, fists clenching. Fucking bastard, that was his lucky lighter! Not that it had brought him much luck so far, but still- it was _his_. “So what now? We gonna stand here all day?”

Envy ignores him in favour of blowing a cloud of smoke in his direction and turning towards Al.

“Is this your _brother_? I can see the resemblance. It’s gotta be the eyes…” They say, and hot fury lances through Ed. In a second, he knocks the cigarette from Envy’s hand, slams a palm into their solar plexus and as they stagger back, hatred tightening their features, he snarls, “don’t fucking touch him or I’ll kill you, understand? And this time, I won’t fucking let you get up again.”

Envy coughs; metal flashes and they level the gun. “You fucking brat,” they spit, and Al yanks Ed back just as they pull the trigger. The bullet shatters the window of the car behind them, setting off the alarm.  
“Getting stabbed really fucking hurts, you know?” They say over the high pitched squeal of the alarm, and Ed laughs, shoving Al behind him.

“Yeah, believe it or not, I _do_ ,” he says, “Equivalent exchange, motherfucker, I was just paying you back. You want to fucking fight me about it?”

“Why do you always have to provoke them?” Al wonders, and Ed elbows him in the side.

“How adorable,” sneers Envy, “seems like the only thing you two have in common are the looks. Hey, short stuff, you think people’d even be able to tell you guys apart if I cut out your brother’s eyes?”

Rubble crunches underfoot as Al, very calmly, steps forward.

 “You’re welcome to try, of course,” he says politely, “but I’m afraid you won’t get very far. At all.”

His voice is utterly, utterly calm, the layers of conviction and pure fucking _threat_ send shivers down _Ed’s_ spine, and it’s not even directed at him; this is the Al that beats Ed in every fight, every time. This is the Al that makes Ed glad they’re on the same side. When Al gets _that_ tone, serial killers turn tail and run. Drug cartels crumble. International fucking criminal organisations _quake_.  
 Envy…hesitates. Falters.

Al smiles, and Envy’s feet shift as they visibly restrain themself from taking a step back.

“You think you’re real fucking tough, don’t you?” they say at last, and Ed tugs experimentally on his handcuffs. They’re pretty strong; good quality. If only Lust hadn’t taken his fucking lock picks…  
“Too bad we got a few people in there you probably don’t want to see dead, brats. This is gonna be pretty simple, alright? We go in, Lust tells you what to do, and if you don’t do it, bang! We get to see the colour of someone’s brains.” Envy grins, twirling the gun like a six shooter. “Personally, I’m hoping you refuse. More fun that way. Let’s go!”

 

***

Ed, handcuffed and bruised, golden and fierce, wearing that ridiculous red hoodie and those ridiculous boots; Roy’s heart _flares_ at the sight of him, he doesn’t know what he wants to do first: kiss him or beat the shit out of the guy pointing a gun at him.

Roy’s had movie-worthy moments before, but as Ed’s eyes flicker round the room and settle, burning, on his; as he sees anger, relief, panic, desperation scroll across his features…he can damn near hear the music in the background, feel the bone deep second of silence as the gold irises meet the black, see the shot in his mind’s eye as the camera zooms in on their faces. If this moment was a movie, Roy’s pretty fucking sure it’d be Oscar-winning.

***

Envy shoves him through the doorway with the same care that he’d taken in punching Ed into a wall during their walk here, and the first thing Ed registers is the fact that this is a basement. The second thing he registers is that there are twenty fucking kids huddled against the wall, blank faced and well into shock by now, and anger twists in his guts.  
The third thing Ed registers is Roy.

He’s chained to a fucking _pipe_ , with his squad member, Hawkeye, next to him, and- oh god oh no- his _eye_.  
His right eye is covered in blood; from this distance Ed can’t make out the source of the bleeding since there’s just so _much_ of it. Roy’s other eye finds him, holds him in place, and all at once warmth flushes all the way through Ed and heats him right to the core. He’s _alive_. Injured and chained and though they’re so close they can’t touch each other- but he’s alive.

If there was any doubt in Ed’s mind before now, it gone. He’ll do whatever he has to do to keep Roy breathing, no matter what the demand.  
He has to.

***

Ed swallows; Roy sees a spark in his eyes like he’s just made up his mind about something and he doesn’t know if that’s a good sign or not. _Ed_ , he wants to say, _Ed, I love you_.  
(Because what if he dies here, now, today, never having said those words? He doesn’t think he could bear it.)

“Oh, good,” says Lust, beckoning them over, and Envy kicks Ed in the small of his back to send him forwards. Fury, so hot it’s cold, burns in the pit of Roy’s stomach. He’s going to kill that piece of shit. He swears it.  
 Riza must see it written on his face, because she nudges him with her shoe. _Keep it together, Roy._

“Has Envy explained how this is going to work?” asks Lust sweetly, and Ed glares at her, straight-backed and unbowed.

“Sure, if you call it ‘explaining’,” he replies, “you want me to do something and if I don’t do it, people die. Classic fucking movie villain; that’s _real_ original of you.”

Lust smiles slowly. “Unoriginal, maybe, but _very_ effective,” she purrs, and Ed’s jaw tightens.

“So what is it you want me to do?” he demands brusquely, and she flicks her hair over her shoulder, sighing.

“No small talk? Very well, then, let’s cut to the chase.” She fixes her gaze on Ed, cold and unforgiving, and a thrill of dread runs through Roy, leaving him unable to move, unable to breathe. “We want you to translate something for us.”

 

****

Translate something? What the fuck? Ed didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but it hadn’t been _that_.

“Translate something?” he asks, “Why can’t you translate it yourself?”

“Shut the fuck up, brat,” snarls Envy in his ear, and though Ed’s reflexes are pretty goddamn fast, he doesn’t _quite_ manage to avoid the gun that clips the side of his head and sends him reeling. Envy smiles in satisfaction as Ed swears; Lust clears her throat and Envy, who seems to have figured out that Ed doesn’t give a fuck if there’s a gun to his head, points the weapon at Al instead.

“We want you to translate something,” Lust repeats, half in shadow, and Ed can see- something, behind her, but he can’t quite make out what it- “And the reason we can’t translate it ourselves…well. I’ll let you work it out for yourself, shall I?”

She moves slightly, and there’s a sound like a backpack hitting the ground as the body falls forward to lie, crumpled, on the floor.

***

Al draws in a sharp breath behind him, and Ed…

Ed doesn’t know what to think. The man- the very obviously dead man- lying before them is someone that Ed hasn’t seen in a very, very long time. His glasses have fallen off his face; they lie, half shattered, in the dirt and Ed is suddenly so cold it’s like his very thoughts have been frozen, like if he lets out his breath now, it will be in a cloud of water vapour and unused words.

“Hoenheim,” he says into the stillness, and Lust kicks his father’s body over so he is staring unseeingly at the heavy cobwebs clinging to the ceiling. She looks up, a smile lighting her face, and pulls a piece of paper from her glove, holding it up.

“That’s right,” she says, “and this is his most important discovery.” She waves the scrap of paper at him, and Ed feels kind of- numb. He can’t stop staring at Hoenheim’s face.

“What do you want with it?” he asks, and beside him Al has closed his eyes.

Lust bares her teeth. “Immortality,” she whispers, “the secret to eternal life. Who wouldn’t want it? Who wouldn’t kill for it?”

Anger is rising red hot in Ed like a tidal wave; his fists clench. “So many people,” he says, words shaking with fury, “so many people are _dead_ , over a piece of _fucking_ paper?”

He tears his eyes from Hoenheim’s unmoving features, his blank eyes, his slack jaw; jerks his head up and he’s so fucking _angry,_ he takes a step forwards, ready to fight, hell, ready to _kill_ , when-

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, pipsqueak,” says Envy, and Ed spins to see the meagre light reflecting off the gun barrel pressed against Al’s head.

Al’s jaw is clenched tight; Ed can’t fucking _do_ anything, not just because Envy has a gun on his little brother: Al could disarm Envy without getting shot, no doubts about it. But they’re still outnumbered, and there are twenty fucking kids, not to mention _Roy_ and his team, who could be the next to be threatened.

Ed’s felt helpless before, but he’s never felt this helpless.

“I’m going to take the liberty of assuming you’re not going to refuse,” says Lust, a satisfied smile settling across her lips, and Ed feels stranded, like his ties have been cut loose and he’s suspended over a fucking chasm and if he makes one wrong move he and everyone he cares about will fall in.

Stiffly, he holds out his hands, cuffs rattling. Lust’s smile deepens, and she hands him the paper.

He’s _so tempted_ to crumple it, to rip it into shreds, to grind it into the dust and look her in the eye and say, calm and movie-heroic, “fuck you.”  
But he doesn’t.

Instead, he drags his gaze down, scanning the scrawled lines of code. He recognises it immediately. It’s the same code in Hoenheim’s journal, the one they stashed somewhere in an alleyway less than an _hour_ ago.

He can read it, but what he reads there doesn’t make any _sense_. Immortality…genes…splicing… _organ_ transplants? Sure, _theoretically_ this had, like, a fifty three percent chance of success, but the risks, holy _shit_ the risks you would be taking…there would be no guarantee of survival; the science itself is flawed- but. But. But even so, there’s something about it that rings _true_.  
That, more than anything, is what gives Ed a whole new understanding of the word _dread_.

“Well?” asks Lust, and her cool exterior has fallen away; she strides towards him, knife flashing, tense as a coiled string. Ed feels the eyes of everyone in the room on him, and he looks up at her, the paper crinkling in his fingers. From the corner of his eye, he sees Roy staring at him like- like he’s trying to tell him something.

Ed makes his decision.

“Sorry,” he says, shrugging, “I don’t have a fuckin’ clue what the hell this says.”


	20. Ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chaos ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW I AM SORRY FOR THE SLOW UPDATES!!!!!  
> Seriously, I am very sorry. I think I severely underestimated the amount of work teachers are willing to give you at the end of term. But hey, this is a chapter! An unedited one, sure, but still a chapter!  
> And! we are! so close! TO THE END!!!!!   
> (I actually can't wait to finish this; I have a bunch of awesome fics to get started on as soon as this monster is over)  
> (also i'll probably go back over this and edit it really slowly over the next year or so)  
> (please enjoy this chapter, and PLEASE tell me in the comments if there are any truly horrific errors that need to be rectified!!!! thank youuuu you guys ROCK MY SOCKS <3333)

 

“Sorry,” says Ed, shrugging carelessly. He is beautiful. Roy’s head is pounding. “I don’t have a fuckin’ clue what the hell this says.”

Chaos ensues like a fire through a field of dry grass.

***

One: Roy swallows, feels the edge of a smile curve his lips. _Thank god_.

Two: Lust’s eyes widen; she opens her mouth, face turning from threatening to pure fury in the space of a breath;

Three: Envy tightens their grip on Al, finger clenching around the trigger-

Four: Al sweeps Envy’s feet out from under them as the gun goes off; the bullet strikes the wall above Roy and he ducks, plaster raining down on him-

Five: Ed spins, hair flashing like gold, and punches the guy behind him; seizing his arm and pushing him face-first into the wall-

Six: Riza finishes picking the lock on her handcuffs with her hairpin and yanks the knife out of her boot, lunging forwards just in time to slam the handle down on Lust’s shoulder, cutting off the circulation to her arm and forcing the knife from her limp grip to clatter to the dusty floor.

Seven: Gingerly, holding his gun with both hands, Falman steps through the doorway, face brightening as his eyes land on Roy.

***

Everyone is fighting everyone, it seems- everyone but Roy. As soon as Falman has broken the lock on Roy’s handcuffs, he falls ungracefully to his knees next to Maes, feeling frantically for a pulse.

“Come on, Maes,” he mutters, levering Maes’ head up a little so he can press two fingers against the side of his throat; next to them, Falman is helping Havoc to stand, handing him a gun. “ _Maes_.”

There is no response, and icy fear has permeated every inch, every cell of Roy’s being; he shakes him. Maes’ glasses slip a little down his face. His face does not move.

Oh, god, no; not Maes, not _Maes_ , surely not Maes-

Roy shakes him harder, wrenches up his sleeve to feel for a pulse in the curve of his wrist but his fingers are shaking and he can’t-

Gunshots, plaster, sharp stone beneath his knees. He side of his face wet, sticky. Maes. Shouts, screams; someone is saying his name, loudly. But it’s not Maes, because Maes is-

What about Elysia? Where is she? Roy doesn’t remember seeing her in the huddled crown of children, but then again he _is_ currently half-blinded by blood and panic so it’s possible that he missed her-

He looks up just in time to see Ed, crowned golden and smeared with blood and grime, sprinting towards him, hands outstretched, before the floor collapses and he is falling.

***

“ _Roy_!” Ed only just manages to skid to a halt at the edge of the hole before he falls in; he stares down into the rubble and his heart stutters, skips-  
Roy’s _there_ , curled limply on far below him, pale and covered in dust and blood and floorboards and rubble, and his eyes are closed. Unmoving.

“ _Roy_!” Ed screams his name over the sound of combat behind him, around him; everyone is fighting everyone, except him. He takes another step towards the edge, straining to see a flicker of movement on Roy’s upturned face-

And he almost falls in for the second time, as Sloth, huge and hulking and infinitely meaner now that Ed’s gotten a few punches in, swings a mallet-like fist at his head.

“Fuck- _shit_ -,”

He trips backwards, ducks the second swing, and takes a measured step away from the edge of the hole. _Roy._

He glances quickly around him; Hawkeye is still here, fighting; she seems to be locked in an incredibly vicious knife fight with Lust, weaving gracefully around strike as metal flashes and sparks fly. Behind him, Al is doing a lot better against Envy than Ed ever did- and with Ed still currently engaged in combat with Sloth, that leaves…

Pride, the little kid. He’s the one that set off the explosion that caved in half the floor; now he’s got his back pressed against the wall, watching the fighting with keen eyes that send chills down Ed’s spine.

 “They put me in prison,” says Sloth, and Ed blinks, focusing on him again.

“What?”

Slowing to a halt, Sloth nods like it takes a lot of work to make his muscles move, staring at his clenched fist.   
“They took me in a car. Then the prison.” He shakes his head, closing his eyes and sighing. “Kimblee was there. He said they would let us out, and then we would be allowed to have fun again.”

 _Fun_. Ed glances towards the kids huddled next to the wall, on the other side of the room near the door. There’s got to be twenty of them, some in rags and too-small sneakers, some in designer jeans and polo shirts. All of them, scared out of their minds.   
Sick _fuckers_ ; Ed’s stomach tightens as he sees the blank looks on their children’s faces, their almost imperceptibly shaking hands.

Sloth raises his head, looks Ed straight in the eyes. “It’s been a long time since I had fun,” he rumbles. “Takes a lot of energy. But Wrath let me out, and he told me all I had to do was make you do what you’re told.”

Ed grits his teeth. The kids are right by the door; if he can get over to them maybe he can signal to them to run while they distract the Homunculi- but there’s no guarantee that any of them are in any state to try to escape…  
 “Oh, he did, did he?” He spits out, “Well, in that case- wha-!”

Sloth swings at him, so fast his fist _blurs_ , and Ed feels the force of it rush past him as he stumbles back, avoiding the blow by _millimetres_.

“I guess you’re not gonna surrender, then,” he mutters, and sinks into a fighting stance he learnt from Izumi when he was thirteen, keeping one eye on the children and one eye on Al- which doesn’t leave very many eyes for himself; this, he soon discovers, is a very bad thing because _holy shit_ this guy is _fast_ \-   


And he’s just realised, that the other Homunculus, the one he’d forgotten about, is Bradley. Wrath. The one who was, presumably, manipulating the police force through his position of power…and he’s nowhere to be seen. Ed hadn’t seen him leave, and he’s not among the rest of them, which means-

The hole in the floor, jagged-edged and leading to what looks like a secondary basement level, maybe a tunnel-

Roy’s down there. Unconscious, injured, trapped beneath rubble and dust. And so is Wrath.

***

 

Dust coats his tongue like the world’s worst condiment, and Roy opens his eyes. Directly above him is an uneven circle of light- it takes him a few seconds to realise he is not hallucinating a scene from _the Ring_ , but has in fact fallen down his very own chasm.

Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow. Pieces of stone and broken bits of wood dig into his back, his side, his neck, and he heaves himself upright. He wipes the side of his face on his sleeve- it’s hard to imagine that this shirt used to be white- and the sharp jolt of pain brings him to his senses.

Oh, god, _Maes_ -

Suddenly very awake, Roy scrambles to his feet unsteadily, staring wildly into the darkness for any sign of his friend. The room he’s fallen into isn’t actually a room, he realises; it’s a _tunnel_. Low-ceilinged but reasonably wide, it’s about three metres across and two metres high- the hole being the exception.  
 If the light was dim up there, then it’s only a couple of shades away from being pitch black down here.

Roy crouches down, blinking a little as his right eye starts to clear somewhat. Thank god for that; his eye is at least intact. Probably.   
Ignoring the sharp pains as rock and floorboards jab into his skin, he starts clearing away the mound of rubble, scraping his knuckles on the edges and throwing the debris behind him.

Then-

As he lifts away a piece of rock the size of his arm-

Maes’ face, pale and bruised by the rubble rained down on him; glasses askew but, miraculously, unbroken; unmoving and cold, clammy, like- no, _not_ like a dead person; he’s _not dead_ -

“Maes!” Roy finds his shoulder beneath the mountain of dust and debris, and hauls him out, panting, presses his fingers to his pulse, holds his breath-

Slowly, wincing, brow furrowed in confusion, Maes opens his eyes.

***

Ed inches backwards, weaving in and out of the strikes, and he can feel a headache coming on. Above them, the ceiling- shakes. Almost unnoticeably. And Ed remembers, remembers the explosion, the barely-breathing fires flickering in the ash…

He smiles. A chance.

He spins, placing his back to the wall and widening his eyes, doing his best deer-in-the-headlights expression. Like he’s cornered, vulnerable, weak.  
 Sloth smiles, satisfied, and draws back his fist. Ed moves like he’s trying to feint past him and Sloth swings; his fist _blurs,_ ruffling Ed’s hair as it shoots towards him; he moves his head at the last millisecond, avoiding  what could very probably have been death by a hair- for, what, the thirteenth time this week?- and Sloth’s fist smashes straight into the wall.

Ed doesn’t even pause to see the damage; a punch with that much power behind it must’ve _really_ hurt. Instead, he dives, straight past Sloth and rolling to his feet by the huddle of children. He scans them, quickly, looking for someone, anyone _aware_ -

There’s a little girl in pigtails, near the back; she meets his eyes with a look that he’s seen before, on Al when they were really young. Scared, but fearless. Young, and protected by the certainty of survival. She looks vaguely familiar and he realises with a jolt that this is the girl Al saved from drowning, all those weeks ago. What’s her name? Alice? Ellie?

“Elysia?” he asks tentatively, and she opens her mouth a little, nodding. Behind them, Sloth is yanking his fist out of the wall. Shit. “Elysia, I need you to do something, okay?” he uses the soft voice, the one mom used when he had a nightmare, or when he fell out of a tree and hurt himself. The gentle one.

Elysia nods again, blinking.

“Great. The ceiling is going to collapse, soon,” he says, and Sloth is straightening up, staring around to find him, “when that happens, I need you to get everyone out of here, got it? Run straight through that door, up the stairs, and follow the hallway to the front door. Can you do that for me?”

She nods vigorously, glances at the kids around her, fists clenched. “I can do that,” she says, and Ed smiles.

“Thank you,” he says, standing up. “You’re really brave, you know that?”

Then he turns, moving as fast as he can away from the kids, drawing Sloth’s attention once more. He’s lumbering towards Ed, shaking his fist slowly.

“That hurt,” he says, and his voice is low, gravelly, and _angry_.

“Good,” says Ed, and adopts a fighting stance again. “What’re you gonna do about it?”

Sloth closes the distance between them in a fraction of a second; he towers above Ed, drawing back his fists again, and rains a barrage of attacks down on Ed’s protective arms. Shit-fuck-goddamn he is going to have _so_ _many_ bruises tomorrow-

Keeping his arms raised defensively above him, Ed inches forwards, waits for a gap and- there-

-Lashes out with a side kick, catching Sloth in the side; it doesn’t do much to deter him but it makes him break his attacks for a second, which is more than enough time for Ed to return a ;unch of his own, aiming for nerve clusters and vital points.

(if only he was _taller_ , it’s be easier to _reach_ )

He drops back into the rhythm, listening to the thrum of his heart and falling into pace, matches the tempo of his strikes to the tempo of the steady thrum of his pulse, and they’re fairly evenly matched, now that he’s figured out Sloth’s timing-

“Al!” he calls over his shoulder, and his brother, avoiding Envy’s fist with ease, raises his eyebrows.

“What?”

“Switch with me!”

Al rolls his eyes, pushes Envy back- they snarl, venomous, but Al is unfazed. “Alright, fine, but you owe me.”

“Yeah, yeah,” says Ed, and jumps back, out of range, taking Al’s place in front of Envy. The last thing he sees of Al is him sinking a perfectly executed elbow strike into Sloth’s ribs, before he turns back to face his new opponent.

“Brat,” spits Envy, and Ed grins.

“Hello again,” he replies, and steps further into the centre of the room, back towards the hole again. It’s a gamble, he knows it is- but if he’s right, and the ceiling is about to collapse (and let’s face it, he knows enough about stress fractures to understand when a ceiling is near breaking point) then the kids are the first priority. Over on the other side of the room, Havoc and Falman are shouting into a radio. Ed hopes that the signal is enough to let them get through; backup would be pretty great right about now.

Envy snarls again, launches themselves at Ed and he ducks, rolls, kicks Envy square in the ribs (fuckin’ _karma,_ you piece of _shit_ ) and holds out his hand towards Havoc.

“Gun!” he yells, and Havoc looks up, bewildered.

“What?”

“Give me a goddamn gun!” He shouts, and Envy jumps to their feet, lashing out with- fuck, that’s a knife; Ed’s had enough of being fuckin’ _lacerated_ -

Havoc pulls back his arm and throws. The gun spirals through the air; the world is in slow motion; Ed dives, Envy staggers-

Ed catches the gun, flicks off the safety and fires three times directly into the centre of the stress fracture above them.

There is a brief moment when Envy is caught in a halo of light, realisation slowly spreading over their face, confusion melting away and turning to fury-

And then the ceiling caves, raining fire and ash and who the hell knows what else on top of them, and Ed scrambles backwards to get out of the _way_ ….

….except there’s nothing behind him. Only empty space where his foot should’ve hit the ground. And even as he falls, he mentally hits himself, because that was a fucking stupid mistake to make.

***

“Roy?” Maes’ voice is faint, croaky; Roy helps him sit up slowly, painfully, and he raises a hand to the wound on his forehead.

“Don’t move too much,” says Roy, and his voice shakes with the surge of relief. “You’ve got concussion, at the very least.”

Maes furrows his brow, looks around them. “We’re…in a cave?”

Above them, there is a crash and someone- Ed!- yells _“Give me a goddamn gun_!” Maes looks up at the circle of dim light above them and his eyes clear slightly.

“Not quite,” says Roy, “Someone- well, someone blew up the floor, actually. We were unlucky enough to be sitting on the part that fell.”

“How long have I been out?” Asks Maes, leaning heavily on Roy’s arm and wincing as he stands, clutching his back like an arthritic old man. Roy resists the urge to make a joke.

“About an hour? Less? Honestly, I don’t know myself,” Roy admits, and Maes’ eyes widen.

“Elysia,” he says, urgency pouring into his voice and now, at least, he seems like his old self. “Roy, where’s Elysia? Did she get out?”

“I don’t-,” Roy begins, but there’s an almighty crashing noise from above, punctuated by three sharp cracks that are unmistakably gunshots- and amidst clouds of dust and cobweb, someone is tumbling down to join them.

They hit what’s left of the pile of rubble with a _thump_ , and Roy can barely make out who it is through all this _dust_ \- shielding their eyes, he and Maes stumble backwards into the wall, coughing.

“….. _Ow_.” says the crumpled figure, and that voice, at least, is something Roy recognises.

“ _Ed?_ ” he asks, unable to prevent the note of incredulity from entering his voice; he moves forwards, tentative, waving away strands of cobweb and gritty clouds. Ed- and it _is_ him; Roy can make out his hoodie now, can see the faded gold of his hair- rolls over, groaning.

“God _damn_ it,” he says, and looks up, squinting. “Yeah, it’s me. Roy?”

Roy can’t mistake the hope in his voice, the almost _fragile_ tone it takes on when he says his name; and isn’t it funny how his name on Ed’s tongue sounds a thousand times better than anything he’s ever heard. Better than the word “promotion”. Better than “pay rise”. Better…

He’s scrambling now, over the debris he moved not ten minutes ago, almost tripping in his haste to reach Ed; when he gets there, he just stands for a moment, almost unable to believe his own eyes. _Ed_.

It’s been, what, a couple of days since he last saw him? Less than a week, certainly. Mere _hours_ , really.   
But it feels…it feels like eternity. Like forever. Like infinity. Like…

He reaches down, grasps Ed’s arm, and pulls him to his feet.

“Thanks,” says Ed, and he’s breathless, eyes gleaming even in this darkness. Wreathed in shadows, clung with cobwebs, covered head to toe with a layer of dust- he is magnificent.

“No problem,” says Roy, and Ed grabs his collar, pulling him down to seal their mouths together in a kiss that feels kind of surreal, actually, given their present situation, but is altogether the most transcendent thing Roy’s experienced in quite some time.

After a while- and how do you measure a while? Longer than a minute, definitely. Maybe the very nature of ‘a while’ is that it is _un_ measurable, much like the depth of Roy’s love for E-   
Maes clears his throat, and Roy pulls back, licking his lips and wondering if it’s possible to destroy his own thoughts so that they never existed in the first place.

“Um,” says Ed, and Maes rolls his eyes. Roy can’t actually _see_ him rolling his eyes, but all the same, he knows it’s happening.

“What’s going on up there?” asks Roy, instead of commenting, and Ed nods like he’s shaking himself back to his senses.

“Right, yeah,” he says, “uh, I kind of collapsed the ceiling. Sort of.”

“’Sort of’?”

“Well, I shot it. With a gun. So.”

Roy- laughs. And laughs, and chokes on some dust, and has a violent coughing fit, eyes watering as Ed pounds him enthusiastically on the back.

Maes moves forward through the cloaking dust stiffly, wiping at the blood on his forehead. “My daughter,” he says, and Ed looks up at him, suddenly laser-focused and sharp. “Elysia. I told her- to run; is she…?”

Ed swallows. “I don’t know,” he says quietly, “I collapsed the ceiling to give the kids a chance to get away- I know that Elysia was with them. She was really brave,” he says, eyes large and luminous, and beside Roy, Maes sags slightly. “She said she would lead the others out. I didn’t- I couldn’t see past all the dust, but I think they got away. They should’ve been able to…”  
he trails off, and for a moment, they are all quiet.

“Who else is up there?” Roy asks finally, and they all turn their faces up to the circle of light above them.

“Hawkeye was fighting Lust, last time I saw,” says Ed thoughtfully. “She was winning. And the other two…Havoc? And…the one who looks really serious all the time. He got you out of your handcuffs?”

“Falman,” supplies Maes, and Ed nods.

“Yeah, him. Those guys were there too, I think they were trying to get through to someone on the radio. I don’t know if the signal is good enough down here, though; it’s pretty shitty even up top. And Al’s there, too- actually, _fuck_ , I left him up there to fight both Sloth _and_ Envy…”  
 Ed could barely manage Sloth on his own, and Envy is a piece of work no matter who they’re fighting. What if-?  
 But no, Al would be okay. Al would be okay. He would be okay, because Ed was going to get back up there and _make sure_ that he was never anything less than okay ever again.

“Next question,” says Maes, pushing his glasses firmly up his nose and squinting critically up at the hole. “How the hell do we get out of here?”

And from the shadows down the tunnel comes a silky smooth voice, the sharp click of regulation boots on concrete.

“I’m afraid,” says Wrath, stepping into the dim circle of light, “that none of you will be getting out of here.”

He draws the sword sheathed at his side fluidly, slowly, smiling softly as the light sparks off the blade, and takes another step towards them.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, dear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT'S 2:43 AM AND I OFFICIALLY HATE FANFICTION

“Well,” says Ed, “Shit.”

“My sentiments exactly,” says Roy, and they dive for cover.

The gigantic mound of rubble comes in handy for once- as Roy drags Maes down, Wrath’s sword slices the air in exactly the place he’d just been standing. Dust flies up again, momentarily obscuring their view, and Ed swears loudly as he narrowly avoids decapitation.

“Stop fighting dirty, you bastard!” he yells, leaping up with fire gleaming in his eyes, and Roy has to grab hold of the hem of his hoodie to stop him charging Wrath bare-handed.

“Ed, _wait_ ,” he gasps through the dust, stumbling to his feet and pulling Maes with them as he backs away, “we need- a strategy, we need to form a _plan_ -,”

“Fine, _you_ think of a plan while I save our asses-,” Ed snarls and Wrath cuts through the dust cloud in one smooth motion, laughing as he steps around the rubble.

“He’s got a point, Detective,” he muses, and the three of them start to back further away down the tunnel. “By the time you’ve thought of a plan, I’ll have killed you all. After all, I only need a second…”

And suddenly he’s right there, blade flashing, and Ed’s shout of “Fuck-!” echoes through the darkness as he pulls his head back just in time to avoid the tip of the sword. A few inches of his hair float down gently to rest on the ground, and Ed grits his teeth.

“You’re quite fast,” says Wrath, and it infuriates and unsettles Roy to no end that the man is still _smiling_ like a goddamn cat. “Not fast enough, unfortunately.”

Roy is reaching for Ed, reaching to shove him out the way, the word _no_ dancing on the end of his tongue, and with a jolt of pure panic to Roy’s heart, the sword- _who even uses a sword, anyway?_ \- is slicing cleanly into Ed’s arm with-

With the sound of metal on metal.  
Roy’s heart skips, stutters, and restarts.  
Wrath’s eyebrows rise infinitesimally and Ed flicks his bangs out of the way, holding up his right arm with a smile as sharp as a knife. Through the torn material of his hoodie Roy can see the silver metal of the prosthetic shining in the dim lighting.

“Automail, motherfucker,” Ed says, and Roy has never seen him look so resplendent, “it’s the new thing.”

***

When the plaster has stopped raining down, and the air has cleared, Al waves the dust out of his face, sighing. It is just _like_ Ed to bring down the whole ceiling-

Speaking of his fractious brother, where on earth _is_ he?

The hole in the floor, almost parallel to the new hole in the ceiling, seems to leer at him from a few metres away, and Al’s stomach clenches. _Oh, brother_ …

Movement in Al’s peripheral vision catches his eye and he spins, avoids Sloth’s huge fist by a centimetre. His hair blows slightly in the draft that follows.

“You’re still awake, I see,” he says brightly, and Sloth swings around to face him again, pieces of smouldering ash and brick sliding gently from his broad shoulders to tumble to the floor.

“Awake,” grunts Sloth, “yes. Awake, awake…” He shakes his head, rubbing at the burn marks on his bare arms, blinking. The ferocity of beforehand is gone, now, as if all his energy has left him and all he has left is his tiredness.

Al can’t help it; he feels sorry for the guy. Most of these people, the homunculi- they’re being _used_ , he knows it. There’s a mastermind behind this operation, controlling everything, moving the pieces on the chessboard and he’s going to find them. He and Ed will bring them to justice for this.

The group of children, however, have managed to escape- or at least, Al hopes they have; there’s no sign of them in here anymore. Ed had brought down the ceiling as a cover for them to escape, he knew that, and he can only hope they made it. The door swings slightly ajar, letting Al peer into the emptiness of the hallway beyond it.

On the other side of the hole, Riza Hawkeye is standing, coughing. At her feet, Lust is unconscious, surrounded by rubble; Al doesn’t know whether it was a falling piece of debris that took her down or Riza’s martial skill but he suspects it was a bit of both. Having watched them fight, he has resolved that angering Riza Hawkeye is _not_ a good idea.

Sloth is staring around vacantly; Al follows his gaze to the mound of rubble under which a feebly stirring Envy lies, pinned. Well, good riddance; Al’s eyes narrow as he recalls his brother’s injuries. Envy is one of the homunculi who truly _enjoy_ violence; Al’s seen enough of them to have figured that much out. Their knife lies forgotten in the dust; every so often a burning piece of wood will fall down and the light from the flames will dance across the blade, flashing and winking.

His arm feels strange. He looks down, sees the small rivers of blood coating his sleeve and thinks _ah. Oh, dear_. No wonder he’s feeling a little woozy; he must have been hit by some of the falling rubble and not realised. As far as injuries go, he’s seen worse- if not on himself, then on Ed.

“Alphonse?” Hawkeye calls from across the room. He looks up at the same time as Sloth, whose eyes narrow.

“Is something wrong?” asks Al, keeping his voice light, inching slowly towards Sloth. Multiple bruises have formed on the man’s shoulders and blood is trickling slowly down his forehead. It should be easy to impair him in this state; Al’s noted that he seems to take some time to recharge before expending his energy in a volley of high-speed attacks. Even now, he stands loose limbed, breathing deep and slow.  
If it comes to another fight, Al will have to focus on delivering blows to pressure points and vulnerable areas; just blocking and trying to fit in attacks wherever he can isn’t going to work with this one.

Riza is propping up an unconscious Havoc; on her other side the other man- Falman, isn’t it?- is shaking his radio with a dismayed look on his face.

“We’ve managed to make contact with headquarters,” she says, leaning Havoc against the wall and moving towards the far side of the room, carefully stepping around Hoenheim’s body. “But the signal is terrible down here, so we don’t know if it got through properly.” Her face is grim. Every so often, her fingers with brush the empty holster at her side.

Al has one eye on Sloth and the other on his father’s body. _It’s been years_ , he wants to say. _Years_. _And you never wrote a single letter, a single email. Ed thinks you left us. Is it true? Did you abandon us? Or did you have no choice?_

“So we’ll have to fight our way out?”

Riza nods. “Precisely.” She reaches into the shadows and draws out- a gun. “I was wondering if you’d seen any other homunculi members- standing guard outside, perhaps? That would be problematic, especially now that the children have gone on ahead, and with Roy, Hughes and Edward possibly injured.”  
Two guns. They must be their weapons, taken from them by the homunculi. He nods slowly, thinking back.

“I don’t think there was anyone outside,” he said, “but not all the homunculi are here- in fact, I think at least one of them, Wrath, might be down there- with the detectives and my brother.” Ed would be alright. Al had to believe that; Ed was _always_ alright, always, always, always. If only Al knew who had his knife- but he hadn’t seen where they’d put it. Hadn’t the little boy taken his?

The little boy, who was currently pointing a gun at Riza’s head and saying, with a sharp, bright grin, “don’t move.”

She straightens, slowly, hands raised above her head, and the boy glances casually over at Al. “Sloth,” he says, finger tightening on the trigger, “Do your job.”

Blood spattering the dust-coated floor, Sloth turns, face slack. He raises his fists.

 _Oh, dear_ , indeed.

 

***

Roy pushes Maes to the side as Wrath advances; he almost trips backwards as he avoids another strike and he is acutely aware that the man is playing with them. Taunting them. Holding back, to see how far he can push them before he finally moves in for the kill.

“The rest of my group will take care of your friends upstairs,” he says, still smiling merrily. Ed lets out a breath that sounds more like a hiss. “The boy, Pride- I have to say, he’s been a wonderful addition to the group. _Very_ bloodthirsty, _very_ skilled. Even if that delightful young woman- Riza?- has managed to defeat Lust, Pride will take her down in no time at all.” As Roy’s fists clench, Wrath switches his attention to Ed. “The same goes for your brother,” he says cheerfully. “I’m sure he’s a very accomplished fighter- we’ve heard a lot about the two of you, after all- but there’s just something about fighting a _child_ that makes it difficult for people to beat Pride. I trained him myself, of course; Lust wanted to pick any child off the streets but why should we, when I already had one of my very own?”

“You sick fuck.” Ed’s voice is very low, and very dangerous. “You used your own _kid_?”

The light fades further as they retreat into the shadows, but Ed has stopped walking. His shoulders shake, ever so slightly, and Roy, sick to his stomach and harbouring a very intense urge to sink his fist into Bradley’s smirking face, is very glad that he’s not on the receiving end of Ed’s fury.

Wrath’s smile deepens.

“But of course,” he says softly, and Ed’s back tightens. “Who else was I supposed to experiment on?”

With that, Ed launches himself forwards, right arm raised protectively n blocking position, curse words stringing out w=behind him like streamers. Roy shouts his name but he’s already gone, setting upon wrath with a flurry of kicks and punches almost too fast for Roy’s eyes to follow0

And Roy understands. At close quarters, Wrath is almost undefeatable- but _only if he can use his weapon_. A middle aged man, he’s certainly healthy, and probably stronger than most other average humans, but Roy’s read Ed’s file, now, and he knows that Ed’s martial ability far surpasses that of Director Bradley. By attacking him constantly and not giving him space to breathe, Ed is allowing him and Maes a chance to either a) escape without him (like _hell_ that’s going to happen, you brat) or b) attack from a distance.

In the split second it takes for Roy to run that through his mind, Maes is already scooping a chunk of rock from the ground and hefting it to throw.

“This kid is insane,” he says as he throws, and there’s something in his voice that sounds a little bit like admiration. Roy nods, watching as Wrath’s infuriating smile drops and is replaced by a grimace contorted with anger.

“I know,” he says, and there’s a certain amount of pride in his voice as he does so, pitching his own missile. A small smile of satisfaction spreads over his lips as it hits its mark.

***

As Sloth’s blank eyes turn on him, Al dives, straight under his outstretched arms, grabbing Envy’s fallen knife and rolling to his feet. As he spins, poised to throw, aiming for pride’s hand, the boy-

-pulls the trigger.

 _Shit_ -

-Havoc and Falman cry out; Al’s breath catches-

-But the bullet goes wide, striking another part of the ceiling. It groans, threatening to come down as well; by this point it’s only supported by a few rusting beams.  
Riza is gripping Pride’s arm, forcing the gun away from her, strength far outstripping that of a small child.

Then Al has to look away, because Sloth’s fist is hurtling straight for him.

Al ducks, feints to the left and lands a hit to the nerve cluster at the base of Sloth’s neck. Without waiting to see the reaction he moves, stepping to the side and striking the pressure point in his thigh. Sloth grunts in pain as his leg goes numb; he stumbles slightly, faltering, and Al steps calmly behind him and slams a kick into his spine. The force of it makes Al wince, but Sloth only moves forward one step, bending over slightly and wincing.

“Ouch…” he says in his low, slow voice, and Al sighs.

“I’m sorry about this,” he says, earnest, and, as Sloth starts to straighten up again, uses the heel of his palm to land a blow directly to the huge man’s temple.

It is a brief, holding-breath moment of silence as Sloth blinks, fists half raised, swaying like the world’s most lethargic metronome, until, finally, he falls forwards face-first to crash to the floor like a ton of bricks.

Al raises his head to see Pride break out of Riza’s arm lock; even from across the room he can see that the boy’s eyes are utterly, utterly dead and he feels a sudden vicious surge of anger towards whoever was responsible for whatever hell this child has been put through.

Riza’s face, for a second, is stricken, evidently thinking the same thing- then she raises her gun, knocking Pride’s own away as she strikes him in the side of the head with just enough force to knock him out.

As he starts to collapse, she catches him, lays him down carefully. Al skirts the edges of the hole quickly, joining her by Havoc and Falman- and his father. Hoenheim’s face is exactly the same as Al remembers it, from all those years ago. _Dad_. _What was it you found out? What was so important that you had to leave us for it?_ He tears his gaze away; turns instead to look at the still form of Pride. What was his real name? Did he even have one? Or had he just been another asset since the moment of his birth?

“Poor boy,” says Al softly, staring down at his unconscious face. If he ignores the gun still slack in the boy’s grip, he looks like any other normal child; innocent, sleeping. Riza leans down and gently pries the weapon from his fingers.

“Yes,” she agrees.

“Kid must’ve gone through some horrific trauma to be like this,” says Falman, still clutching his radio. He shakes his head, haunted. “We’re going to catch whoever’s in charge of this whole thing, aren’t we?”

Riza nods, handing him the gun. “Or course, “she says, and there is no room for doubt in her steel-toned voice. “Now come on. We have criminals to arrest.”

 

***

It’s going fairly well- Roy and Maes throwing various pieces of debris from behind as Ed pummels Wrath into oblivion- up until the part where Wrath decides to stop messing around.

One moment Roy’s feeling a surge of hope, the next, Ed’s flying backwards, skidding across the ground and coughing, painfully, as he heaves himself to a standing position again. Blood, almost black in this light, runs down his cheek from a deep cut to his face, and from the way he’s holding his ribs, Roy realises Wrath has struck him there. _Oh, god, no_.  
Debris falls from his slack fingers as he runs forwards,  placing one hand on Ed’s shoulder and one hand on his back to support him as his knees almost give way.

“Ed,” he breathes, “are you-,”

“I’m- fucking- _fine_ ,” Ed grits out, and Roy almost _laughs_ , helpless, unable to do anything but rub circles into Ed’s skin and pray that the damage isn’t permanent-

Wrath turns his sword just so, so that the faint shafts of light from the outside catch the blade.

“That’s enough playing around, now, boys,” he says, eyes narrowed, bruises beginning to form on his arms where Roy and Maes’ projectiles struck home.  
Ed, fingers digging into the wall for support, turns his head to the side to spit blood onto the cold ground, eyes squinted almost shut with pain. His breathing is laboured; Roy watches the flecks of blood glisten wetly on the stone. _Oh, god,_ _Ed, Ed, Ed, Ed, Ed, Ed, Ed, Ed-_

Unable to form words for the fear coating his throat, he realises how foolish they were to believe that they could take Bradley down by _throwing rocks_ at him.

Maes- laughs.

“Does the concept of your death amuse you?” asks Wrath, smiles plastering itself back in place, “or are you so struck by fear that it’s given way to hysterics?”

But Roy’s seen what Maes has seen, and now a smile of his own is forming, hard and sharp.

“Close, but no cigar,” says Maes, and points with his chunk of brick at the shaft of light from the hole behind Wrath. “I’m actually laughing because of _that_.”

Wrath turns, frowning, sword flashing, and Riza, standing directly behind him, pulls the trigger.

Wrath’s body makes a muffled thud as it hits the ground, blood spreading slowly from the wound in his head. Ed presses

“How are we going to explain this to the authorities?” wonders Roy.

“We _are_ the authorities, sir. Hurry up. I’ve sent Falman ahead to meet our backup, but it looks as though all of you are in need of urgent medical attention.”

Roy slings Ed’s arm around his shoulders, ignoring his weak protests as he half supports, half carries him past Wrath’s crumpled form and into the circle of light.

“You saved our lives,” he says to Riza, unable to express the immense gratitude for not only this separate occasion but for all the occasions before, and all the occasions to come. “What would any of us do without you?”

Reloading her gun, she looks up, raises her eyebrows. “You’d be dead, for one thing, sir,” she says, and her eyes tell him that she understands. “So not much, I suppose.”

Roy has to smile at that.

 

***

 

Al leans down from the edge of the hole, arms outstretched. One of them is bleeding profusely.

“Don’t worry about me,” he says in response to Ed’s alarmed look, “You’re in much worse shape than I am, brother. Here, detective…”

While Ed squirms, curses, and tries his very best to knee Roy in the face, the two of them manage to heave him into a position where Al can take hold of him and haul him up out of the tunnel. By the time his scuffed docs have cleared the edge and he’s stumbled out of view, Roy has acquired an impressive number of bruises.

“Ow,” he says, clearing his throat, and Riza gives him a _look_.

“What about Elysia?” Maes says, straining to reach the edge of the hole, and Al appears again, reaching down with a strong arm to help him up.

“Elysia’s just fine,” he says with a bright smile, “Falman found her and the kids outside. They’re alright.” 

All the tension leaves Maes’ shoulders just like that, and he closes his eyes, swinging himself over the edge.

“Oh, thank god,” he mutters, relief washing over his face like a wave, and Roy blows out a long breath, too. “Thank _you_. Thank you for saving my daughter.”

Al goes bright red.

“Oh- of course! Although it wasn’t exactly me, it was Ed’s idea to distract the others so they could escape.” Maes nods, and as Al offers Roy a hand up too, Roy takes in the paleness of Maes’ skin, rhe livid bump on his forehead where he was hit.

Upon clearing the hole, je goes to his friend’s side, holding him by the shoulders as he attempts to stand up.

“Woah, Maes,” says Roy, “take it easy. You’re concussed, you need to rest-,”

Shaking his head, Maes pushes at his hands weakle. “No,” he mutters, “Elysia…. Have to…..”

His grip goes slack, and he falls limp against Roy. Dead weight.

“We have to get him outside,” says Roy, fighting to stay calm, “did you call an ambulance?”

“Yes,” says Riza, helping steady Maes , “it should be here any second. Roy, focus. It’s going to be fine.”

Her brown eyes are determined as ever, fixed on Roy, reminding him of all the promises he’s ever made, all the things that have gone wrong and still turned out okay in the end. He breathes out.

“Alright,” he says, “Alright. Let’s go. Alphonse, can you manage your brother?”

Al sends him an ironic look, slinging Ed’s arm over his shoulder. “I’ve had around eighteen years of practice,” he says, “I’m sure I’ll be fine. Come on, brother. Don’t you dare pass out on me.”

He leads the way through the door and up the stairs, and Roy follows, Riza supporting a bewildered but awake Jean behind them. If je focuses on the shaft of light at the top of the stairs, the smell of fresh air, and the shining golden strands of Ed’s ponytail before him, he can pretend the fire and the blood and the limp weight of his best friend, who may or may not be dead, don’t exist.  

“Maes,” he mutters as the stairs creak beneath their shared weight and the growing light makes him squint and the sirens start to pierce the city air, “if you die, I will never forgive you. Got it?”

There’s no reply. He tells himself that’s okay, and keeps going.

 

 


	22. Happily Ever After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s not until a few months later that happiness- fresh, golden, happiness- becomes something akin to a default.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand we're out

Hospitals are slowly becoming very familiar places. Everything here is surreal, it seems; as if the hospital room is a place apart from and unaffected by the flow of time. The starched white sheets, buzzing lights, rhythmic _beep-beep-beep_ and the strange half-light of the sun filtered through thin blue curtains conspire to create a room removed from what Roy has come to know as _normality_.

Also, Roy hasn’t slept in five days and his internal monologue is suffering for it.

He has a lot- a _lot-_ of paperwork to fill out, things to sign, trials to attend, catastrophes to smooth over, but for some reason he just can’t make himself move. Maes has been comatose since they left the warehouse a week- give or take a few hours- ago.  
 It’s strange, to think that it’s _over_ \- or at least as over as it ever will be. Given the circumstances, Roy’s frankly amazed that any of them made it out alive. And with the mess they’re left with now; the quagmire of loose ends and in the centre of it, Roy, clutching desperately at strings to tie them all together again…

The bandage over his eye is blocking his vision. He feels kind of vulnerable because of it, which is ridiculous, because _Roy Mustang_ doesn’t do vulnerable. It’s just strange, that’s all, to have a weakness that anyone can see, that anyone can poke and prod and take advantage of. The fan at the foot of the bed is blowing cold air directly into his face, and he can’t force himself to move to turn it down. Instead, he trains his eyes- _eye_ \- on Maes’ face, intent, as he’s been for five days now, watching for any sign of wakefulness. _Just give me something, Maes, anything_ …

The door swings open; Ed stomps in and, without bothering with small talk, thrusts a polystyrene cup of coffee unceremoniously into Roy’s face.

Roy- takes it, almost burning his fingers on the sides.

 Ed, clad in loose sweatpants and t shirt, drags a chair over from across the room, throwing himself into it with a sigh, flicking his hair back and settling down into a companionable silence.

It’s so completely typical of him that Roy has to smile. This is Ed, letting Roy know that he’s here for him, not in so many words, maybe- but then, when have they ever needed words?  
  
Without taking his eye from Maes’ unmoving face, Roy reaches over, winds his fingers through Ed’s, holds on. Ed grips back tightly. He knows.

The curtains flutter, the fan sighs, the heartrate monitor beeps, and they wait, exhaustion prickling at the backs of their eyes, holding on for dear life.

 

***

In the end, they reached a compromise.

 Ed had been pretty much medicated out the window for the first couple days; ribs fucked and wracked with so much guilt and pain and blood and nightmares that Al shifts uncomfortably when he asks him about it, says ‘you were- you were pretty out of it, brother. They didn’t really have any other choice than to give you something.’

But that was just for the first couple days. Then they let him off long enough for some semblance of sanity to return, and he- well.  
He’d gone batshit, as per fucking usual, and honestly Ed kind of wishes he hadn’t kicked up such a goddamn _fuss_ , but- he just-

He just can’t fucking _stand_ the thought of being so pumped full of drugs he can’t even function, of being wrapped up so tight in chemicals that everything shuts down and he’s numb, floating in a sea of cotton wool, staring out at the fucking hospital room like he’s seeing everything from underwater.

Part of him _knows_ that he’s overreacting, that the doctors are just trying to help, that yeah, maybe it _would_ be easier- or at least a hell of a lot less painful- if he would just take the goddamn pills, but every other iota of his being is fighting, straining to _get away_ with everything he’s got. 

And he would have done, would have fucked up bad, probably; would have escaped through sheer force with the wire-thin strings of pure panic wrapping tight around his nerves if Al hadn’t been there.  
Al, barring the doorway with his arms folded, doing the Mom Glare and holding out a compromise in the shape of a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt.

 

“You don’t have to wear the hospital gown and you don’t have to take the pills if you don’t want to Brother. And in exchange you have to stay here for as long as the doctors say you do, and you have to let them _help_ you. _No arguments_.”

Ed had taken a breath, ready to say _fuck you_ to equivalent exchange- but-

In the depths of Al’s eyes he could see the fatigue, the fear; he falters, opens his eyes properly and there are deep, deep thumbprints under his little brother’s eyes; Al hasn’t slept. Al is worried about him.  _Congratulations, Ed, you dumb shit. You put him through hell,_ again _. Time to collect your prize for the worst fucking brother in the universe._

So he’d taken a step back, and then another, and then he’d taken the clothes from Al’s arms and he’d said, with the too-familiar sinking feeling,

“Sorry,” and Al had said,

“it’s alright, brother.” And even though Ed knew that, no, it really wasn’t alright…he felt like maybe they could pretend it was. Just for a little while.

Anyway, two days later and he was surviving marginally better than before, burying himself in theoretical physics articles and books that Al brought him to distract himself from the ever-present sickly smell of hospitals.

So far, it’s working. So far, Ed’s written three responses to several scientists’ articles detailing exactly how and why their theories are either a) utter bullshit or b) utter bullshit with an element of potential. So far, he’s learnt sign language, semaphore, and shorthand. So far, he’s doing…okay.

The doctors seem to agree, because finally, _finally_ , they’ve granted him permission to actually fucking walk around on his own.

And he’s bored, and probably going crazy, and Al’s at college and the sun is shining through a tiny gap in the curtains _directly_  into his eyes and he can’t be bothered to close them, so it’s not his fault, is it, that he decides to go and find Roy.

Of course not. It’s only because he’s bored, that’s all.

 

Roy looks terrible. That’s the first thing Ed notices. It’s like the man hasn’t slept in a year; his stubble is showing, his hair is a rat’s nest, he’s pale and wan and Ed- just kind of wants to hold him. Kiss him, gently, and tell him everything’s going to be okay.  
That scares him, a little. But what scares him the most is the crisp white bandage over Roy’s eye.

Maes is still, almost corpselike on the bed, and Roy is dressed in those horrible green hospital scrubs, looking kind of lost without his tailored shirts and pants. Kind of…bedraggled.

Ed leans over and takes his hand almost without thinking about it, feels his pulse even through his palm.  
_Hey, Roy, you look like shit._

_Hey, Roy, it’s all going to work out._

_Hey, Roy, I think I’m in love with you and it terrifies me._

 

***

Maes wakes up exactly three weeks later, and, typically, Roy isn’t there to see it.

He’s actually twenty minutes away from the hospital, at home, showing Ed and Al into his house because- in Ed’s words- “since our fuckin’ apartment burned down we need somewhere to stay, and Hawkeye suggested here so you don’t really get a choice in the matter. You don’t mind if Al brings his cat, do you?”

It’s funny; Ed’s words had been so confident, but his face when he said them was anything but. Red as a stoplight, chin raised as if _daring_ Roy to challenge him, and the only thing Roy -newly discharged from hospital, eye still unused to bright lights after so long under a bandage, bullet scar slowly healing and the nightmares slowly changing from _abhorrent_ to _bearable_ \- could think was _adorable._

And he was. Which was maybe why Roy had just kind of stood there, and blinked, and nodded.

There was still so _much_ between them, unspoken; still so much that Roy needed to say (the look of utter _relief_ on Ed’s face when Roy had smiled, said ‘of course I don’t mind,’; the way he’d nodded, coughed, pointed his eyes firmly _down_ and surged past, cheeks flaming)-  but even with all that, really, how could he refuse?

“There’s only one spare bedroom, I’m afraid,” he says, pouring the water into the mugs, adding milk to two of them and four- _four_ \- sugars to the last; in his peripheral vision he sees Al give Ed a very significant look, but Ed isn’t paying attention. Instead, he’s staring in fascination at Roy’s wallpaper.

“Is this even a legitimate colour?” he asks, finally, prodding at the wall as if he doesn’t believe it’s real. Behind him, Al rolls his eyes.

“That, Edward, is what those of us knowledgeable in such areas would call _periwinkle_.”

Ed’s eyebrows rise slowly, gradually gaining altitude until they’re almost touching his hairline. “What the fuck.”

“Brother-,”

“No, really, what the _fuck,_ Roy?”

Roy shrugs, handing out the coffee with a careless grace. This takes up a not-insignificant amount of concentration, but not so much that he misses the way Ed stumbles over his name.

“I suppose for someone with your interests,” he says, glancing airily up at the stripes of blue, “something so mundane as colour classification might go a little over your head.”

He doesn’t even have to wait two seconds before Ed explodes. His cheeks darken rapidly from _sun-kissed_ to _cherry_ ; his eyes flash saffron-gold and- there it is-

“Oh, fuck _you_ ; who the _fuck_ d’you think you’re calling _sh_ -,”

Roy’s smirk fades almost immediately as the phone rings, effectively putting an end to Ed’s rant. Maybe that’s a good thing- Al’s looking at him with an expression of faint calculation, and Roy can’t help but feel relieved by the intervention-

“Roy Mustang speaking,” he says, and Ed flops down on the sofa behind him, coffee mug wobbling dangerously on the table in front of him.

Speaking of Ed, on that _sofa_ ….

“This is Highbridge Hospital, we were asked to inform you when a Mr. Maes Hughes woke up-,”

“He’s awake?” All thoughts of sofa sex with Ed are banished from Roy’s mind; he grips the edge of the mantelpiece with white knuckles, and in the mirror above them he sees Ed and Al fall still, mid-discussion, listening intently.

“Yes- actually, he’s asking for you-,”

“I’ll be right there.”  


His mind seems to blur as he hangs up; he doesn’t bother with a coat, just shoves his feet into his shoes, takes the keys from the hook in the hall and he’s out the door, Ed darting through it after him, hair rippling behind him like a banner on the wind.

“Mr. Hughes is awake?” Al asks, pulling the car door closed behind him and Roy glances back at him in the wing mirror, nods.

“Apparently.” He doesn’t believe it himself; can’t allow himself to believe because _what if he gets there and nothing has changed_?

Don’t get your hopes up, Roy, the world will _always_ disappoint you, always, always, always….

In the passenger seat beside him, Ed reaches over, winding his fingers through Roy’s.

“Then what are we waiting for?” he asks, turning to look up at Roy, eyes so calm and clear and full of light.

“That’s a good question,” Roy says, and puts the car in gear.

***

 

With Hohenheim gone, Ed doesn't know how to feel. The official report came in earlier that week; sitting in Roy's lounge watching the TV and feeling kind of numb, kind of disconnected. Al had swallowed a few times, cleared his throat, nodded, and made a copious amount of tea.   
Ed had clenched his fists, listened to the buzz of white noise crowding his brain, and wondered what he was supposed to be feeling. 

But see, they're _alright_. They're _alive_. No one died- or, at least, no one on their side did. Ed tries to be indifferent, tries not to care so much but the thought of even Envy's body, blood-soaked, eyes wide and unseeing, makes him want to throw up. He sees it in his nightmares: himself, standing cold and merciless over Envy's dead body, holding a knife, or a gun, or sometimes just staring at his dripping red hands.   
_Murderer_ , his subconscious is telling him. _Murderer_.   
His ribs still hurt like hell, but the doctors are less worried about internal bleeding and more worried about stopping him from getting into fights, now. Walking hurts, breathing hurts, hell, sitting down and doing _nothing_ hurts, but Ed's used to a little bit of pain and it's nothing he hasn't handled before. 

Al retrieved Hohenheim's research notes from the alleyway a the day after he was released from hospital with seven stitches in his arm and a reminder to drink lots of water. He'd brought the journal to Ed's hospital room, and they'd sat there for hours, deciphering and worrying and Ed...  
Ed doesn't know what to do with it. 

He hasn't told Roy yet, mostly because Roy still looks half-dead from stress and sheer lack of sleep, but also because this information is so goddamn dangerous he can't bring himself to trust anyone with it.   
He knows Roy would never use it against anyone. He knows that Roy probably wouldn't believe half of it; and why should he? _eternal life_ and _raising the dead_ ; it's bullshit, of course it is. But the shit other people have done just to test of this bullshit...  
Human experimentation, abominations that remind Ed of horror stories from the scientists working at concentration camps during World War II, human beings- _actual_ human beings, that still makes him sick to his stomach despite the scars he has to prove the twisted, evil things humans can do- trying to do things that any sane person would know are _impossible_....

Part of Ed, the part of him that lives and breathes equations and atoms and quantum theory, has the morbid yearning to find out if it _is_ possible. If it ever could be. 

But the rest of him wants to burn the journal and bury it seventy feet underground in a concrete bunker and forget it ever existed. 

 

He sighs, shifts his position on Roy's couch- Roy's couch, which he knows quite well, which he wants to know better, wink, wink, nudge, nudge- blowing his bangs out of his face with a sigh. Roy's at work, as usual. Al's at college, as usual. He's here, as usual.   
Winry's back in town; she'd come down after Al'd called her telling her some of what had happened, wide-eyed and not knowing what she was going to find when she got there, and they'd had to tell her. He could go see her, but she's with Rose; they're already planning their next roadtrip. He could call Izumi, ask her what's going on at their new lab: he's working there again but she's insisted that he take a few months off to 'recover'- which, for the record, is bullshit; he's _fine_.   
Hell, he could even call Russell; Ed's been fired from Roasty Toasty but for some reason Al is keeping up with the Tringham brothers and every so often they exchange emails and talk about biology, which is nice. 

Or, he could sit here on this couch and steep his brain in black coffee and the smell of Roy's sweaters. 

Ed rolls his head back against the couch's armrest and tries very hard not to think about Roy and his shoulders and the planes of his face and his chest and the depths of his eyes and the way his hair falls and his ass and his waist, and-

And-

And Ed's in the same goddamn _house_ as him for fuck's sake; why do the words still get stuck in his throat every time he tries to tell him? 

_Roy, I love you_.   
_Roy, I think I want to spend the rest of my life with you, is that cool?_  
 _Roy, you look at me sometimes like I'm something precious and it makes me feel all warm and stupid and no one's ever looked at me like that before and would it be okay if I could just stay? Right here? With you?_

Oh, god.

***

 

Elysia’s face when she’s allowed in to see her papa is perhaps the one thing out of _everything_ that nearly pushes Roy to tears. Nearly.

 Instead, he exits the room quietly, Gracia shooting him a grateful glance over her shoulder, and leaves the family to their reunion.

 _He’s alive_.

Outside, Riza and Jean are sitting on uncomfortable plastic chairs with the Elric brothers; they all stand up at the same time when Roy closes the door softly behind himself.

“How is he?” Riza asks, and finally, finally, Roy can smile.

“He’s alright,” he says, and the relief pours from his every word; he feels it in his chest, in his heart, in every breath he takes. At this, everyone visibly relaxes, sagging back a little, eyes clearing just enough to let the hope show. “Memory’s a little fuzzy but apart from that, he’s fine. The doctors want to keep him for another week or so, just to monitor him, but apart from that, he’s fine.”

They all nod in unison, too, and Roy would laugh if he wasn’t so fucking emotional. He’s a little afraid that if he starts to laugh now, he’ll start crying, too, and then he won’t be able to stop.  
  
“It’s been a weird fucking month, hasn’t it?” Jean says, finally, and Roy blows out a long breath, collapsing into a chair beside him.

“That it has,” he agrees, staring up at the softly buzzing light fixtures, the grid-like ceiling pattern.

On the other side of the corridor, he sees Ed, slumped in his chair with his head resting on Al’s shoulder, bandages every which way, mutter, “Weird fucking _life_.”

Roy can’t help but agree with that, too.

***

The first few weeks are what Roy likens to frantic clawing for a handhold on the cliff face of destiny.  
  
 With his bandages freshly removed and the scars beginning to fade, he’s got his vision back and with it, his dreams for the future of the state. _A chance_. A chance to make good of what he got and finally, fucking finally, _do_ something.

The criminal justice system is in shambles; the few surviving members of the Homunculi are behind bars (indefinitely, if Roy has any say in it); the mound of paperwork on his desk goes unnoticed as he finds himself perpetually moving from one conference room to the next. Promotions, meetings, strategies, manipulation. All things Roy has become accustomed to in his years, and even more so now that he and his team are- slowly but surely- building the entire system back up from the ashes.

But all storms must die down eventually, and, considering, well, _everything_ , it takes a surprisingly short amount of time for Roy to be well and truly _content_ again. That said, it’s not until a few months later that happiness- fresh, golden, _happiness_ \- becomes something akin to a default.

 

“Ed.”

There’s no answer, save for Ed burrowing a little deeper into the cocoon of warmth between the pillows and Roy’s chest.

Roy smiles, presses a kiss to Ed’s shoulder, trails his fingers down the curve of his waist, past the old scars and healed bruises over his ribcage.

“Ed. It’s time to wake up.”

This time, Ed answers- although Roy isn’t sure whether the noise he makes can be classified as an _answer_.

“ _Mnngh_ ,”

“Edward,” Roy kisses his shoulder again, a little further down, shifting slightly so he moves further down the bed, “If you get up within ten minutes,” another kiss, on his shoulder blade, bones sharp and strong beneath his skin. “I’ll make you pancakes.”  
 Kiss, kiss, kiss; he reaches the middle of Ed’s back and Ed groans, long and drawn out, into the pillow. He raises his head slowly, squinting into the sunlight, and Roy, laughing, winds his arms around his chest to pull him down again.

Their lips meet, familiar and Ed sighs happily into the kiss, lips and tongue moving lazily, fingers tangling in Roy’s hair. He rolls, _god_ , and sometimes it’s fun to fight back with Ed, but they’re already flipping, rolling, and Ed is straddling him, sunlight painting broad golden stripes across his tanned skin. It’s nearly spring, Roy thinks vaguely, but then Ed distracts him again as he deepens the kiss.

One hand stroking the delicious curve of Ed’s spine, the other buried in his hair; Ed’s hands insistent already and god, this is the best way to spend a Saturday morning, isn’t it?

Roy pulls back for just a moment, brushes his thumb over Ed’s cheekbone; the sheets pool around them like silk.

“Ed,” he says, softly, and Ed leans into his touch, eyes flickering briefly closed.

“Yeah?”

Roy smiles. “I love you.”

Ed’s hand comes up, pulls Roy’s from his cheek in favour of capturing it for himself, pressing a kiss to his palm and threading their fingers together.

“I love you too, dumbass.”

He leans down again, breath ghosting Roy’s lips before he kisses him, transcendent, and-

Gracefully rolls off Roy, picking one of his discarded shirts from the floor and shrugging it on as he wrinkles his nose at the cold floor on his bare feet.  
“You said something about pancakes?” he asks, glancing back at Roy as he buttons the shirt; it falls, adorably, to just above his mismatched knees.

Roy- groans, heaving himself out of bed to find the test-tube patterned pyjama pants that Ed so carefully threw off the side of the bed last night. “But of course, my love,” he says as sarcastically as his Ed-fuddled brain can manage, “Anything for you.”

Ed finds a hair band on the floor and engages in the daily battle of morning hair versus ponytail, and sets off down the hall.

“Al,” he calls, yawning, “Roy’s making pancakes!”

“Really?” says Al, appearing from the end of the hall with- as ever- a cat in his arms, “That’s awfully nice of him.”

Rubbing his eyes, Roy flicks on the light switch, and makes his way down the stairs. “Is it, isn’t it?” he agrees, “ _especially_ when a certain someone-,” he looks pointedly over his shoulder at Ed, who sticks out his tongue, “won’t even finish what he _started_ -,”

“That’s not _my_ fault, you bastard,” Ed says, taking the stairs three at a time and darting ahead to beat Roy to the kitchen, “’sides, you _said_. Pancakes. Ten minutes. _I’m_ not the one who set a time limit.”

“I’m afraid I was rather counting on your ability to look hilariously unattractive in the morning,” retorts Roy as Ed starts up the coffee machine, “Unfortunately, today was an exception.”

“Oh, well _fuck you too_ , Roy ‘I woke up like this’ Mustang; just because we can’t all be fucking _supermodels_ -,”

“You two are disgusting,” Al remarks, setting the cat down on the floor and busying himself with mugs, “do I need to find an excuse to spend the rest of the day at the Hugheses while you ‘make up’?”

Roy clears his throat, taking a sudden interest in the newspaper on the side, but Ed has no such qualms.

“Yes,” he says, looking straight at Roy, who looks up, meets his eyes with a slow grin of his own and Al raises his eyebrows hurriedly, grabbing his coffee and retreating to the sitting room. “How about I just make that the weekend?” he says, but Roy isn’t listening anymore.

Back pressed up against the fridge door, Ed makes an honestly _pornographic_ noise, and Roy tried very hard not to just jump him, then and there, cat-hair-coated cold, hard floor be damned.

“Yep,” Al mutters from the other room, “See you on Monday, you two. Please try not to traumatise the cats.”

Ed curls his fingers- automail hand cold against Roy’s skin- into the waistband of Roy’s pants, and neither of them are really up to making a very coherent reply, just then.

It seems so surreal, to Roy, when he looks back and remembers everything that happened, all the way from the beginning; when he remembers the bottomless days and the sleepless nights, when he traces the scar on Ed’s abdomen and his mind, unbidden, flashes back to the blood and the flame and all the deep, dark pain…

It’s so surreal that after all that- after _everything_ , they made it. They made it, and better yet, they made it _together_. Edward and Roy. Gold and silver. It’s been a long journey, and at points, incredibly shitty, but with this boy before, Roy wouldn’t trade any of it for the world.  
_  
Ed, you are_ everything _to me._

_Ed, nothing terrifies me more than the thought of someday losing you._

_Ed, there are no words to describe how much you mean to me; no words to even skim the surface of my love for you. I would do anything, give anything, if it means keeping you unharmed and happy._

His perfect skin is wrought with scars; he’s molten gold and quick flashing silver; Roy is giddy with the wonder of him, head over dizzy heels in love with him. He’s heard that lovers are supposed to tire of each other, after a time, but god, even now…how could he ever tire of Ed? How could he ever see him as anything less than everything?

Ed kisses him, and all Roy can do is smile, smile, smile.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...........AND THEY ALL LIVED HAPPILY EVER AFTER  <3333333333333333
> 
> okay here's the real author's note: MASSIVE, MASSIVE THANK YOU TO EVERYONE WHO READ, COMMENTED, LEFT KUDOS, BOOKMARKED, VIEWED, LIKED AND/OR ENJOYED. YOU HONESTLY ROCK SO MUCH!!!!!!! it's been a WILD RIDE and i'm really glad it's over lmao BUT i'm also kind of sad because i had a lot of fun writing this. and also a lot of excruciation. but all in all i think it was fun. mostly. ANYWAY YEAH THANKS FOR STICKING WITH THIS YOU'RE GREAT AND I WILL WRITE SOME OTHER STUFF SOON PROBABLY  
> also would like to thank my homie Fee (aka SmutJunkie on here yoOo check out that shit) for putting up with all my shit and betaing a lot of this mess. THANKS M8 <3333


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